


The Silence of the Spider's Thread

by Eloquent_Dreams



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BUT THEY DONT KNOW, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Happy Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mentioned Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher), Mouth Sewn Shut, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Suicide Notes, Talking Someone Out Of Suicide, Torture, Wanna know why?, Whump, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 77,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24250321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloquent_Dreams/pseuds/Eloquent_Dreams
Summary: Geralt has definitely made plenty of enemies over the many years of his existence as a Witcher. The crudest of labels - mutant, monster, butcher - have rolled of the tongues of nearly all humans that saw him. There was but one person - a sweet, beautiful bard - who never viewed him as such atrocities. Geralt never understood why Jaskier cared so much for him.The only thing he understood less than that was how unreasonably in love he was with Jaskier.But the last time the Witcher allowed himself to be vulnerable, it ended in disaster the day he was dubbed the "Butcher of Blaviken". Geralt thought it best to deny his feelings after that - or, at the very least, to hide them.It seemed unthinkable that anyone would ever target Jaskier in order to get to Geralt, nor to take any brutal measures to silence him......But what if the unthinkable happened?How would Jaskier deal with losing what he built his life around - his voice? Would Geralt remain steadfast at Jaskier's side and do everything he could to undo the damage, or would guilt end up destroying him? Can a lovestruck Witcher and silent bard - their very existences being oxymoronic - ever recognize their feelings for each other?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 202
Kudos: 366





	1. Disastrous Misdirection

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fanfiction in a very long time, so I'm excited to share it with you! I'll update when I can, so I hope you all enjoy this! :) Feel free to come scream at me about it on my tumblr @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a supposedly simple mission from a blabbermouth at a pub - slaying a giant spider - things go awry.

It was supposed to be just like any other trip in which Jaskier followed the ever-begrudging Geralt of Rivia; as he accompanied the Witcher on foot while the grumpy monster-slayer would traverse on horseback - “Don’t touch Roach,” he would always grumble - the bard would go on his normal tangents about… well, anything. The wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Some woman in his past whose husband he made a cuckold. He even managed to go on a ten-minute diatribe about a pebble in his shoe, and it took him making an impromptu parody of his own song - _"_ _Toss a rock in your footwear, oh valley of… rocks. Seriously, why are there so many rocks? I didn’t think a forest would have-"_ before Geralt pulled the reins and stopped for a moment, letting Jaskier solve such an obviously agonizing problem without making the bard fall behind in their trek.

Honestly, it astounded Geralt - though it shouldn’t have - how Jaskier could use his voice as much as he did. Not only for his constant ramblings, but also for the lyrics that just seemed to stream from him like a waterfall as his fingers found the right notes so naturally that it was like they were acting on their own.

Though Geralt never admitted it, he sometimes found himself thinking about how much he wanted those fingers to interlock with his own. 

Despite the cold statements he made about Jaskier’s singing, the Witcher couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed by the bard’s tune, no matter how hard he tried - and he tried very, very hard. The only true problem he found with Jaskier’s singing and blathering was that it kept his lips from being on Geralt’s.

Well, it would be more honest to say that if anything were keeping their lips apart, it was probably the fact that Geralt kept using his to push away his beloved songbird. “Fuck off, Bard,” “Shut up, Jaskier,” and “I’m not your friend,” seemed to roll off his tongue, unfortunately. He wasn’t used to his heart harboring these kinds of feelings towards anyone...

...At least, not in a way that didn’t quickly turn into heartbreak and tragedy.

He still couldn't imagine caressing Jaskier's cheek without remembering how Renfri's blood soaked his hands.

Now, many days had passed since Geralt realized the quiet yet constant adoration he held for his canary, and surely enough, his heart was still beating, his chest still rose and fell while he slept, and his eyes - those breathtaking eyes, such a piercing shade of blue that it felt like Geralt was gazing into the sky when he looked into them - were still so full of light and life. 

And Geralt wanted to keep it that way, even if it meant repressing his feelings. Such was a practice he’d done his entire life, so it should have been easy, but it got harder and harder the more he heard Jaskier’s sweet voice.

Geralt knew one thing; if his bard were silenced, the Witcher would have no clue what to do with himself.

But he would find out soon enough.

“Er… what are we going after, again?" After hours of blathering and verse-mumbling, which Geralt felt much more content listening to than he thought he would ever admit to the bard, Jaskier finally posed a statement that Geralt would respond to with more than a hum.

“Same as every other time you follow me around,” the Witcher grumbled, “A monster.”

“Right, right.” Jaskier nodded, blinking in the sun as he looked up at Geralt, “Quite the startling revelation, truly.”

Geralt may not have understood his own emotions very well, but the language of sarcasm was still one he could speak and understand fluently. He rolled his eyes, as he knew Jaskier would expect from him, but he did manage to catch a glimpse of how the sunlight bounced off his hair so iridescently - _fuck, it must have been illegal for anyone to be this lovely_ \- before he looked ahead again.

“An arachnid monster.” Geralt decided that keeping Jaskier in the dark would probably do more harm than good. “In plain terms for you, a giant spider.”

“Methinks I should feel insulted!” Jaskier threw his arms up in fabricated offense. “You think I - one of the most noteworthy bards in the Continent-”

Geralt stared down at him and raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of this. Jaskier backtracked his statement.

“One of the… er… bards… of the Continent-” yes, that was something neither of them could deny, “-wouldn’t know what that is?”

“You’re the one who forgot we were looking for one.”

“Well, you can’t blame me! That guy in the pub just kept blathering on, and on, and on, and-”

“I thought you of all people would be unfazed when people don’t know how to shut up.” Geralt grumbled. There was a twinge of regret when those words left his lips, signaling that even for him, that was an especially cold thing to say.

He looked down at Jaskier to monitor his reaction. Initially, the statement seemed to sting the bard, judging by his furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips, but he quickly deflected it by continuing to ramble.

“Yeah, I’ve never been a big fan of spiders. I definitely love a fine pair of legs, but two legs or less is fine enough for me, thank you!”

Roach neighed.

“Present company excluded, of course.” Jaskier added, “Yes, I’m perfectly satisfied with a nice, strong, toned, sexy, horseback-riding…”

Geralt looked down at him - from atop his horse that he was very clearly riding - with a raised eyebrow again.

"Pair… of… legs.” Jaskier nervously finished his sentence, punctuating it with the clearing of his throat. “Again, present company excluded.”

“Is it?” Geralt asked rhetorically as he had Roach stop a few meters away from a cave. “We’re here. This is where he said it was.”

The trees around them stopped before a great mound of rock. A gaping hole - easily big enough for one grumpy witcher to walk through without the need to crawl, or even to duck - bore through this mound, and the ground seemed to dip downward to lead into it’s maw. It might have, in fact, been able to fit a Witcher and a bard if the latter wasn't disgusted by the thought.

“Eugh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, fidgeting nervously with the strings of his lute, “Please tell me that’s _not_ where we’re going.”

“It’s not.” Geralt came down from atop Roach.

Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief.

“It’s where _I’m_ going.”

Jaskier gasped the stress back into his body.

“Wha - Geralt!” he staggered back in shock before stepping in front of the White Wolf to block his path, “Er, do you honestly think you can head down there and just deal with it on your own? I mean, that’s it’s _lair_.” The bard continued to step backward as Geralt continued towards the cave. “ _You_ will be in _it’s_ house! You may have all your swords and, er, witchery potions, but you won’t know the cave like that thing does!”

“I can handle a spider.” Geralt told him in response.

“Well, I can’t!” Jaskier stopped walking. “What if it’s actually out here, and you go down into that cave like some… some… caveman, or something, and I get left out here with a horse and a spider?”

Geralt tilted his head and smirked, such a rare occasion that even Jaskier stopped in his tracks.

“Well then, you can sing it a lullaby. I’m sure you have something in your repertoire for singing a monster to sleep. Depending on how bad it’s hearing is, it may actually like your voice.” Geralt stepped aside the bard, who still stood there in shock at both Geralt's smirk and his use of sarcasm to insult his singing. “Stay with Roach.”

With that, he stepped into the cave, leaving the disgruntled bard to watch his Witcher’s equestrian companion. The bard sat against a tree and fiddled with his lute. It was an odd thing - fiddling with a lute. He could fiddle with a lute, but he couldn't lute with a fiddle. This may have crossed Jaskier's mind if he wasn't still reeling at what Geralt said about his singing.

“He doesn’t mean all that about my voice. He’ll never admit it, but I’m music to his ears, and we all know it.” Jaskier said as he glanced up at Roach, though in all honesty, he was mostly telling this to himself, “I think that if Geralt ever gave anyone an honest compliment, it would throw his body into shock. He’d say that he liked the color of my doublet, and the next thing you know, he’d spasm and foam at the mouth!”

Roach didn’t warrant much of a response, aside from a little head shake.

“He can’t bear to appreciate my exceptional conversation skills, but he can carry on a one-sided conversation with a horse just fine!”

Roach huffed.

“Hm, not entirely one-sided, I suppose.” This was followed by a sigh. Sometimes, despite how much he foolishly adored Geralt, insecurity ate away at Jaskier’s heart. What if this coldness wasn’t just part of Geralt, but it truly was because of Jaskier? What if every chord he played was like a pest flying past Geralt’s ear? What if every note he sang - every incessant word he spoke - was nothing to Geralt but the cause of a headache?

Jaskier didn’t have much time to think on the subject of his insecurity before it was cut off by a rustle in the bushes that preceded Roach’s ears pointing up, her body stiffening as if something dangerous was nearby.

There were two rules of thumb about Roach that Jaskier followed just as loyally as he followed his Witcher. One was made clear on the day they met: Don’t touch Roach. The second was one not so much about not irritating Geralt as it was about bettering your chances of survival, even though those two things went hand in hand: when Roach starts acting like something is wrong, something is wrong.

Jaskier switched gears from melodramatic to attentive as he delicately set down his lute and reached for the dagger on his hip. He didn’t like to fight, but he thought having some sort of instrument (not his lute) for self defense would be useful while traveling with someone with as many adversaries as his White Wolf.

Taking deep breaths in an attempt to slow the rapid hammering inside of his chest as his heart seemed to beat so loudly that the noise pounded in his ears like a drum, Jaskier tentatively stood up and stepped a few paces away from Roach. He slowly turned in a circle to assess if any threats were nearby, and another rustle in nearby bushes only made his panic skyrocket. It could have been a little woodland creature, or even just the wind, but something deep in the buttercup’s stomach told him that something was watching him, and he was in very, very big trouble.

_What can I do?_ Jaskier thought to himself. _Could I get away on foot?_

_No, I’d get lost, and Geralt and I would get separated. Bad times all around._

_What about taking Roach?_

_What, and leave Geralt stranded?_

_Geralt can handle himself!_

Despite Jaskier’s panic, Geralt’s name seemed to echo in his mind. Something deep inside his heart implored him to call out for his Witcher, and though the thought of being unable to handle a threat without Geralt was frustrating, this instinct - _call out to him, call out to him, FOR THE LOVE OF MELITELE, CALL OUT TO HIM -_ was the thought that seemed to be the loudest out of all the thoughts whirling around his mind, so he called out. 

_“GERA-”_

He tried to, at least, but a gloved hand clamped a rag over his mouth and nose before he could get the whole word out. The attack caught him by surprise, causing his body to betray him when he took a sharp, deep breath.

_Shit._

He shouldn’t have done that. He really, really, really shouldn’t have fucking done that.

A bitter, nauseating fume was the first thing he registered, and it made his panic turn into full-blown terror.

He tried to swing his dagger at his attacker - behind him, in front of him, above him, wherever - as he tried to use his other hand to claw his attacker’s grip loose. Both attempts at freeing himself failed miserably as his dagger failed to make contact with anything but air and he failed to pry so much as one finger off his face. Fatigue and drowsiness began to replace his short-lived adrenaline as he dropped the dagger and his knees buckled. The attacker wrapped his other arm around his waist. Jaskier’s head felt like it was underwater, but he could still hear a familiar voice - a very incessant, blathering voice - humming one the bard’s most notable pieces: _Toss A Coin To Your Witcher._

The next words were the last thing Jaskier heard before he succumbed to the drug and blacked out.

_“If your Witcher paid just a touch less attention to the coins tossed his way, maybe he would’ve paid more attention to his little songbird...”_

* * *

The darkness of the cave was no problem for Geralt’s vision. His eyes weren’t unlike those of a cat; no matter the darkness or light, Geralt’s eyes adapted to give him the best possible sight for finding his target.

But after a few minutes of descending deeper and deeper, the light from the outside growing dimmer as he stepped through the pungent, eerie, web-draped cave, Geralt found that even though he could make out the webbing along the cave walls and remains of what was likely a spider’s prey, he couldn’t see any signs of a spider being in the cave presently.

He even went so far as to heighten the sensitivity of his hearing. While the Witcher’s hearing was already very good, he didn’t like to enhance it outside of situations of total necessity due to the fact that otherwise, everything and everyone around him would have irritated him far quicker than they already did on the regular. Regardless, his heightened sense did nothing but make the crunching of rocks and bones under his feet, the dripping of water from the stalactites to the ground, and the sound of his own breathing that much louder.

Eventually, he did come across a spider; standing, it must have come up to his knees, and it must have been horrifying for any prey who crossed it’s path.

At least, that’s what he would assume if the thing was still alive.

However, when he noticed how still the creature was, and how it was on it’s back with its eight, spindly black legs curled inward, he was all but certain that it was dead. The spider’s death was confirmed when he realized he sensed absolutely no life in the creature; that’s why it had been impossible to see, hear, or use his own extraordinary senses to pick up on any signs of the spider’s life, let alone it’s whereabouts.

He would have just shaken his head with a grumble and headed back up the cave to reunite with his dandelion, writing off that some other hunter got to it first - or it simply fell victim to the brutal circumstances of the wild between the time of the blathering pubgoer’s request and Geralt’s arrival - if he didn’t notice something peculiar.

Upon closer inspection of the creature - something Geralt amusedly pictured Jaskier cringing and dramatically recoiling at the sight of - he realized that a thick layer of dust had collected on the corpse, which had already begun to turn white, and when he poked one of the legs, it was so decayed that it crumbled under his finger.

This thing had been dead for _years_.

But that didn’t make sense. It was only a few days ago - not even a week - when that pubgoer told the Witcher and his bard about a terrifying spider that lived in this cave, coming out to terrorize the people of a nearby village. That clearly wasn’t true, so why would he lie? What did he have to gain from-

_“GERA-”_

With just a fraction of a word screamed by his sweet Jaskier, panic dug its claws into Geralt’s chest and held his heart in an iron grip. He couldn’t tell if that panic was his own, or that which he sensed from Jaskier, but he didn’t take much time to ponder it as he turned around and started to run back to the entrance - back to _Jaskier._ That was all that mattered. _Get to Jaskier. Get to Jaskier. Get the FUCK to Jaskier._

His path to the cave opening was cut off by spider webs.

Walls upon walls of webbing seemed to stretch out before him, even though mere minutes ago, the only webbing he initially passed took form in sparing, draping webs that stretched across gauges and spaces between stalactites - nothing like the stuff that must have formed while his back was turned to the entrance. This was bizarre, but Geralt didn’t take the time to think about that. As he brought out his sword and sliced through the web layers, running as fast as he could when each section of newly sliced webs would give him the opportunity to do so, there was one rage-fueled thought in his mind; his dandelion should _never_ sound so afraid, and the second Geralt found whatever made him so terrified, he would... he would... he would... 

Whatever Geralt would have done, he didn’t get the chance.

By the time he cut his way through all the webs and broke through to the surface, Jaskier was gone.

_Fuck._


	2. Caught in the Spider's Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt discovers the reason for Jaskier's disappearance. Jaskier runs his mouth until he can't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get... a little Chaotic Jaskier in this chapter. As a treat.  
> EDIT 5/24: I fixed some issues that came up cuz of formatting i.e. extra spaces after italicized words. :)  
> EDIT: 6/4: I changed a part about that previously consisted of Geralt trying to use a witchery "sixth sense" to find Jaskier - now, he actually decides against it. I've retroactively edited the part due to the fact that it contradicts a later plot point. WE DON'T STAN PLOTHOLES.

Moments after he realized the bard was gone, Geralt forced himself to set aside the shock of Jaskier’s disappearance. The panic hadn’t gone away - in fact, it only instilled itself deeper in his mind when the absence of the bard became clear - but Geralt knew that now wasn’t the time to halt everything and just stand there, upset and terrified about the whereabouts of his buttercup. So, for the time being, he took all the Panicked Feelings and put them in a box, and then he put the box way, way, way in the back of his mind.

Now, Geralt could assess the scene.

The first thing he did was find Roach. Although she was frantic, she was ultimately unharmed. This was a relief for Geralt, for an unharmed Roach was always a good thing, while a missing Jaskier was not. He unhooked her reins from the tree branch they had been tied to and started petting her mane to calm her down. He hadn’t done that with her reins, and Jaskier wouldn’t have - he knew not to touch Roach, so telling him not to touch things that were _on_ Roach went without saying - so, the ever-so-sleuthy Geralt deducted that someone else made sure Roach couldn’t run from where she was, and that same person probably had something to do with Jaskier’s absence.

_Damn it._

An infinitesimally small part of his mind - delusionally hopeful as it was - hoped that the reason for his bard’s disappearance was that he was panicked by something, cried out for Geralt, and ran away. Now, however, it was looking more and more like Jaskier’s disappearance was an unwilling one.

Despite how he could have used the same extraordinary sense he used back in that cave to try to find Jaskier, he decided against it. The reason he didn’t like to use that particular “sixth sense” of his - basically allowing him to sense nearby life, even particular people or creatures if he was accustomed enough to their presence - had much to do with the fact that it meant picking up on _every_ form of life around him, and in a forest like this - practically brimming to the brim with life, with living things surrounding him at every angle - sensing the energy of every animal, tree, and blade of grass would have given him a monstrous headache. He wasn’t sure if that held true inside the cave, but even if it did, Geralt would have gladly accepted that headache if it meant preventing this.

Still, even now, he didn't utilize the ability; not only would it have been counterproductive to give himself a headache right now, but Geralt knew by sight and hearing alone that the bard wasn’t nearby in any sense of the word; he could only see the slight wavering of trees in the wind and the little rabbits, squirrels, and other little woodland creatures that were scurrying around, and he could only hear the quiet, peaceful noises (at least, they would have been peaceful if it weren't for the present circumstances) those things made - the rustling of leaves and little footfalls of tiny animals. Jaskier couldn't have been removed from the forest on foot in the time between his crying out and Geralt coming out of the cave, so whoever did this must’ve had a portal or used some sort of teleportation.

White-hot fury started to melt the ice-cold fear in Geralt’s heart, and it took nearly all of his will power to keep his emotions at bay while he thought his way through the situation at hand.

Who would want to hurt Jaskier? Well, besides cuckolds and the occasional furious mother, the most obvious answer to that question was this: someone who had a bone to pick with Geralt. Of course, the list of people who potentially had bad blood against the Witcher was so long that if one were to write all the names down on a scroll, that scroll would likely stretch all the way across the Continent. He had to narrow this down further.

 _Who the hell would hurt him?_ Geralt asked himself. _Why would anyone hurt such a sweet, beautiful dandelion? The moment - the fucking SECOND - Geralt had his hands on that bastard, he’ll be dead._

The rage and fear within Geralt bubbled as he tried to focus. Standing there, fuming and silently panicking as Roach headbutted him - that wasn’t doing anyone any good. Time to look further.

He turned around and saw Jaskier’s dagger, stabbed into a tree.

The weapon was recognizable enough for Geralt to know it was his, for the buttercup engraving on the handle was a dead giveaway. Jaskier engraved it himself; he tried telling Geralt how he’d love for the pommel to be bejeweled - _I’m not one to fight without necessity,_ Jaskier explained to Geralt after it’s purchase, _but why not practice self-defence with a bit of flair?_ \- but not only was it needlessly expensive, Geralt gruffly explained at the time, but jewels probably would’ve reflected the sun into his eyes during a fight, as well as they would’ve robbed him of any possibility to utilize the element of surprise. Begrudgingly, Jaskier listened to Geralt and settled for the buttercup engraving.

Geralt wondered if the jewels would have helped Jaskier protect himself and possibly prevent his abduction, but those thoughts were cut short as soon as he saw that a note was nailed to the tree by the dagger.

The Witcher ran to the tree like his life depended on it - well, it was more accurate to say it was like _Jaskier’s_ life depended on it - and ripped the dagger from the tree. Carefully, as to not rip the paper or mar any of it’s words with tree sap, he slowly removed the note from the dagger.

On one side, there was a map. It showed all the land within a hundred miles of the cave he just came out of, and there was a location on the map - some sort of dwelling, it looked like - with a red circle drawn around it, and an arrow pointing to the circle to boot.

Something told Geralt he was wanted there.

It looked to be about twenty miles northwest, so it would probably take until nightfall for Geralt to get there on Roach, as it was already mid-afternoon.

Desperate for more information - though he never would have admitted it - he turned the note around.

Two things presented themselves to Geralt, and both things disgusted him.

The first was a demand scribbled in ink.

_"All your coin for the bard."_

Geralt sighed to himself; out of all the things Jaskier could have been abducted for, a _ransom_? Not only was it reprehensible, but Jaskier probably would've taken being used for something so petty and underhanded as an insult.

 _Fine. Whatever._ Geralt thought. _If this fucker wants coin, I’ll give him some damn coin._

The second atrocity he laid eyes on was right below the ransom demand. Stamped right on the paper, in blood red ink, was the seal of the bastard who took Jaskier.

A dot with four bent lines on either side.

_A spider._

* * *

This wasn’t the first time Jaskier woke up without having any clue where he was. Not by a long shot. He slowly opened his eyes, and when his vision came into focus, he found that he was staring down at his lap. Thankfully, he found that he was still wearing pants - the same pants he was wearing before he blacked out, no less. Good. There was always one rule of thumb that Jaskier kept in mind throughout his life as a bard who was infamously flirtatious; if you wake up in a place you don’t remember falling asleep in, it’s always a plus to know that you’re still wearing the same pants.

Consciousness slowly seeped back into the bard, and with it, he started to recall what happened: that incessant blabbermouth at the tavern, Geralt heading into that cave to kill a spider, someone clamping a bitter-smelling cloth over his face - yes, it was all coming back to him.

As his body regained feeling, Jaskier came to realize that he was in a chair. It was a comfortable chair itself - lovely, polished dark oak, beautifully carved with a nice cushion to boot - but the problem lied in the fact that his wrists were bound to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the front two legs. He was panicked at first, but when he realized that the bonds seemed to be made out of spider silk, he was more disgusted than panicked. Cringing in disgust, he lifted his head in order to observe his surroundings.

There were a few things he noticed, the first being a plethora of spiderwebs all over the walls of the room, which looked to be the size of a small bedroom. The webs all but covered the black walls, illuminated by a few wall-mounted candles that dimly lit the room. Jaskier cringed at this as he did with the webbing that bound him. How anyone could willingly stay in a place like this was beyond him, and if he and Geralt ever lived together, it would never be in a place like this.

This wasn’t the best time to think about his domestic fantasies with Geralt, but as much as Jaskier knew that, he also didn’t care.

Next, he realized that there were no windows. Jaskier internally cursed at how it was all but certain that no one would find him like this and get help, but he subsequently realized that he was probably being kept in a very secluded location. Until Geralt came for him, he was on his own.

There was a small part of him that wondered if that “until” was actually an “if”.

_What if Geralt doesn’t think I’m worth it? What if rescuing me would be a waste of time for him?_

Jaskier forced that insecurity down. With his current predicament being as undesirable as it was, he couldn’t afford to allow doubt to creep into his mind and make things worse. Nope. Not the time. The best thing he could do right now was continue to take in his surroundings.

He noticed a man across the room, right next to the door. As Jaskier was placed in the middle of the room, this meant that the two were just a few feet apart. He was facing the bard, yet he paid him no mind. How Jaskier didn't notice him before was a mystery, but not one he cared too much about solving at the moment. Unlike Jaskier, he was unbound and appeared to be in here of his own accord. Oblivious to the fact that Jaskier was awake, the man sat in a chair just like the one Jaskier involuntarily sat in, consumed in a book and, apparently, completely comfortable with the fact that there was someone tied - webbed, even - to a chair right in front of him.

Jaskier knew this was his captor. This wasn’t very surprising, but it wasn’t until the bard looked at him for a few moments - opting against immediately snapping and demanding in futility to be let go - that he realized something that made him suppress a gasp.

The man was incredibly lanky - no, _spindly_ would be a better word to describe him - with combed-back black hair, a bare face sporting a few, sparing wrinkles, an astoundingly sharp jawline, and completely pitch-black eyes that scanned the page he was reading. As his bony fingers stroked the paper, Jaskier noticed how he mumbled as he read; he wasn’t sure if the man was quietly reading aloud or just providing commentary for himself.

Jaskier recognized the bastard by taking one look at him, but if he was somehow unable to recognize the man by face, he would have been able to tell who he was by that incessantly unceasing voice.

“You’re the man from that tavern.” Jaskier spoke up, making his consciousness known. The man looked up from his book and cocked his head at Jaskier, grinning in such a way that sent chills down the buttercup’s spine. Still, he didn’t lose his nerve. “You’re the one who gave Geralt the contract to kill that spider.”

“An astute observation, Bard.” he remarked, his voice so smooth it was nauseating; though his voice sounded like honey, it dripped with venom.

“Yeah, I have those sometimes.” Jaskier responded nonchalantly, “Come on, was there even a threat that Geralt needed to take care of?”

The spindly man tilted his head and raised one eyebrow, looking up at the ceiling and pursing his lips as he put on an expression of incredibly fabricated uncertainty. Sarcasm; such was a language that both Geralt and Jaskier spoke fluently, but this man spoke it with a dialect of pure obnoxiousness.

“Oh-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooooh.” Jaskier threw his head back at the absurdity of this situation. “You mean to tell me you sent a _Witcher_ on a wild goose chase?”

“Well, I’d prefer to call it…” he took his time as he pondered the wording, “… a logical ruse.”

“Well, _I’d_ prefer not to be tied to a chair with disgusting spider web… stuff… but that’s too damn bad, now isn’t it, Spindly?” Jaskier retorted, tugging at the restraints for emphasis. At that moment, he realized he had no clue what his captor’s name was, so he just threw that nickname in at the end. 

“Mm, I’m surprised you haven’t fought harder against your situation.” Spindly sat back and crossed his legs. “Most people would have started demanding to be let go by now.”

“Oh, right, right, because you _definitely_ would've just cut me loose and sent me on my way if I asked you to let me go, right?” Jaskier asked sarcastically, “I don’t like to waste my breath, Spindly.”

“You’re a bard. Wasting your breath is all you do.” Spindly took a dig at Jaskier’s profession. “And don’t call me Spindly.”

“Then don’t kidnap me.” Jaskier retorted without skipping a beat, “What’s your name, anyway?”

The other man - damn, with all the spider-like qualities about him, not to mention all the spider webs around him, Jaskier wasn’t even sure he _was_ a man - took a deep breath, clearly growing irritated by the bard.

“Arachnir.”

“...Yeah, no, I like Spindly better. Anyway, what _are_ you?” Jaskier asked, his curiosity piquing.

Spindly raised an eyebrow, “Well, _that’s_ quite the insensitive question.”

“Oh, fuck off. Do you know what's _more_ insensitive? Well, I'll tell you: sneaking up on people, drugging them by clamping a gross rag over their faces until they pass out, kidnapping them, and tying them to chairs.” Jaskier retorted again, playing off that he was bitter and inconvenienced by this situation than terrified, “Seriously, are you some kind of mage? A wizard? Oh, I don’t like wizards too much. You see, Geralt told me about this one wizard that’s just an all-around dickhead. Stroganoff, or something.”

“I’m not a wizard, or a mage. I’m not one of those magic freaks.” Spindly told Jaskier, “At least, not by conventional means.”

Spindly held his left hand in front of his own face and slowly curled in each of his long, bony fingers one by one, from pinky to thumb. As he did, Jaskier could see white thread forming between his fingertips until his index finger and thumb were pinched together while his other three fingers curled into his palm. Then, after Spindly closed all but the first two fingers on his right hand, he enclosed those two fingers around their left counterparts and pulled his hands apart.

A long string of spider silk hung from his hands, astonishing the bard.

“Deathly illness as an infant. Injected with spider venom as a “last-resort” kind of antidote.” Spindly recalled as he fidgeted with the silk. “Eventually, I came across a few spells to help me get by, including one for teleportation - just in case you were wondering how I managed to make off with you so quickly. Without it, that Witcher probably would have had my head.”

“Well, thank Melitele for that spell.” Jaskier said as his voice dripped with sarcasm, “What am I doing here, anyway? These bonds aren’t the most comfortable, not to mention they’re much more gross now that I know they’re made from your… well… self.”

“It’s not what I want from _you_.” Spindly said as he stood up - black robes draping around his thin frame - and started pacing around the bard, “It’s what I want from that _Witcher_.”

As Spindly uttered that word, he said it with such venomous animosity that in Jaskier's eyes, it felt like he was holding back the urge to spit. As much as it shouldn’t have raised Jaskier’s ire - someone’s nasty sentiments towards Geralt should've been the least of his worries - he couldn’t deny how much that irritated him.

“There are a few reasons I didn’t pay him up front, but the biggest one was this: why would I give him any money when I would just end up getting all of it back and more?”

“Wait, I’m here for a _ransom_?” Jaskier took great offense to this as he twisted his body around - as much as he could, at least - so he could face Spindly while he walked behind him. “Are you serious? That’s, well, that’s just _incredulous_!”

“What,” Spindly raised an eyebrow as he looked down at Jaskier. “You’re too good for that? The pompous little bard is too proud to help me fill my pockets a little? Or...” Spindly put on an expression of mock pity as he circled back around the bard, “Do you not think you’re worth all that Witcher’s coin?”

“All our-!” Jaskier started to snap at Spindly, but he stopped himself, lifting his chin up and pursing his lips. Taking a deep breath, he stifled a growl.

Jaskier had always expected that he would eventually get caught up in a predicament like this - being put in danger to make Geralt vulnerable. The Witcher warned him that such would probably happen if Jaskier chose to travel with him - especially considering they were both captured by elves on the day that they met - and he told him exactly what he should do if it did happen:

_Stay calm, don’t go out of your way to aggravate your captors, and try to keep yourself from getting hurt, however you must._

Well, if Jaskier was a wiser man, he probably would have followed this advice.

Alas, Jaskier was not a wiser man.

“Despite all the other things Geralt could be doing right now, all the monsters he could be hunting, all the _people_ he could be _protecting_ , he’s stuck trying to fill your pockets. It’s ridiculous.” Jaskier said, his voice dripping with bitterness as he hung his head.

“Oh, come now, what would he have spent that money on, besides whores and alcohol?”

“Well, for starters, Witchers need to eat and sleep, so… food… a few nights at an inn somewhere… literally _anything_ other than this horseshit…”

“And what would he have done to _earn_ that money?” Spindly said with a scoff.

“More than you!” Jaskier snapped, further ignoring Geralt’s advice about not aggravating his captor.

Spindly scoffed, shook his head, and stopped in front of Jaskier.

“Do you want to know the other reason I didn’t pay that Witcher up front?”

He crouched down so he was at eye level with the bard, who was trying as hard as he could to stay calm.

“It’s because,” he started in a low voice, his voice dripping with contempt for Geralt, “I don’t think that revolting, disgusting butcher - no, _monster_ \- deserves even one coin of mine, even if I was to reclaim it later.”

Jaskier lifted his head and, disregarding every bit of better judgement he had, spat in Spindly’s face.

Aghast, Spindly staggered backwards as Jaskier huffed, fuming at what this idiot was saying about his Witcher.

“How dare you?” Spindly hissed, wiping the saliva from his cheek.

“ _How… dare… YOU?_ ” Jaskier yelled the last word, and he was far from finished yelling. “Oh, so I spat at you for abducting me and insulting Geralt! Well, that Witcher gets spat on, insulted, threatened, and even beaten just for existing! But you know what? He still gets up and fights for those humans who berate him every damn day; he lays his life on the line to protect the same humans who despise his very existence - who _hate his fucking guts_! If I were Geralt, I would've turned my back on humankind a long time ago, but somehow - some-FUCKING-how, he hasn’t, because despite all the atrocities he’s seen humans commit towards one another - towards _him_ , even - and despite all the… all the _cesspools_ he’s waded through, he still sees the good in humanity; he sees something worth protecting. Even though so many humans hate him, he still cares more about humans than I’ve seen most humans care about each other! So, you can feel however you damn well please about him, but don’t you dare get in my face and talk about how much of a monster he is. You may both be mutants, sure, but only one of you is a monster, and it’s _NOT. GERALT. OF FUCKING. RIVIA._ ”

By the time Jaskier’s diatribe was done with, his voice was all but raw. The entire time, save for a slight wince at the bard’s volume, Spindly watched him with a calm, unreadable expression. After Jaskier stopped talking, Spindly took a deep breath and walked to the door, even though he was only two feet away from it.

“Oh, where are _you_ running off to?” Jaskier sat back and cocked his head to the left. “Don’t tell me you’re just storming off because I told you that you’re fucking wrong!”

 _“I’m coming right back,”_ Spindly hissed, _“And trust me, you’ll wish I fucking didn’t.”_

With that, Spindly took his shattered ego and left the room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him,

Jaskier was alone.

As he struggled against his restraints in futility, he did what he did best, what he always fell back on, what his most familiar comfort and passion was throughout all his life; he started singing.

As Spindly’s footsteps grew quiet as he stomped down the hall, Jaskier belted what must have been that bastard’s least favorite song in order to spite him - _Toss A Coin To Your Witcher_. He was singing so loudly that he almost couldn’t tell if he was singing or just yelling. By the time he got to the final lyric, terror started to settle in his heart.

 _“Come on, Geralt.”_ Jaskier whispered weakly, _“I don't know if you’re going to come here, but if you are, just hurry up.”_

He coughed a few times, his throat dry from the shouting and singing.

_“Please…”_

The door opened once again. Unfortunately, as much as Jaskier hoped that it would be his White Wolf standing there, it was Spindly. He looked furious, but it wasn’t a fuming kind of fury, like Jaskier’s - it was ice cold. Something about it unnerved Jaskier, but he still tried to feign strength, glaring into Spindly’s black eyes as he shook in his bonds.

Maintaining eye contact with the bard, Spindly silently created a short piece of spider’s thread - about five inches long. He broke eye contact to look at the thread, glancing at it with a small nod as if to say, _“Yep, that should be long enough.”_

Finally breaking the silence, Spindly also broke the thread before proceeding to whisper some incantation, his lips mere inches from the thread as he held it in front of his own face. As he finished the incantation, the white, almost clear thread turned as black as ink. This pushed Jaskier to ask a question, despite how his voice was now small and quivering.

“What… what was that incantation?”

“Oh, that?” Spindly asked nonchalantly, “Well, in basic terms, it was just to make sure that unless I say otherwise, anything I do with this thread will be permanent. Essentially, it’ll be unbreakable.”

Jaskier was shaking.

“W-w-w-why? W-w-what will be unb-b-breakable?”

Spindly didn’t answer verbally, instead tying a small knot at one end of the thread before he held the thread in one hand, using the other to reach into his pocket and pull out one of the most horrifying things he could have shown Jaskier at that moment.

A sewing needle.

Jaskier started to breathe rapidly as he shook his head, watching this sick bastard thread the needle and hoping to, well, any deity who would listen that this lunatic wasn’t going to use it for… for… 

“You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut.” Spindly said as he stared at Jaskier’s mouth.

Oh, sweet Melitele, he was.

_“No…”_

Jaskier started thrashing in the chair, fighting like hell to either break the chair or loosen his bonds.

 _“No, no, NO! Please, don’t! Oh god, for the love of Melitele, I’m begging you!”_ Jaskier cried.

Spindly grabbed the back of the chair and started dragging it towards the wall opposite the door, which only made Jaskier struggle harder and beg louder.

 _“GERALT!”_ he hysterically screamed at the top of his lungs. Part of Jaskier knew it was futile to call out to him, but the bard was so terrified that he didn’t care; he wanted - no, he _needed_ Geralt, so of course he was going to call for him.

Spindly positioned the chair against the wall.

_“GERALT, I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE! PLEASE! GERALT!”_

Spindly spread some webbing across Jaskier’s chest, binding him to the wall.

_“PLEASE, GERALT, HELP ME!”_

Spindly laid strip after strip of webbing across Jaskier’s forehead, binding it steadfast to the wall like his chest.

_“GERA-”_

Spindly planted one hand under Jaskier’s jaw and forced it closed, using his other hand to put layers of webbing under it, attaching them to the strips on his forehead and so they held his jaw so tightly shut that it made his teeth hurt. Damn it, now he couldn’t even open his mouth to scream. As much as he writhed against the restraints, that’s all he could do - writhe. Despite his frantic struggling, he couldn’t break free. All he could do was hiss a few pathetic pleas of mercy at his captor, and that’s exactly what he did.

“A-a-a-arachnir, p-please! That - that’s your real name, r-r-right? I’m sorry! I’ll - I’ll be quiet! Y-y-you can gag me, web my mouth shut, anything else, just - just _please_! I - I - I won’t say another word!”

The spiderous bastard softly ran his thumb over Jaskier’s lower lip. The terrified bard squeezed his eyes shut, but the sensation lasted just long enough that he started to think that his captor was contemplating mercy. There was still a small, desperate part of Jaskier’s mind, terrified as he was, that thought his pleading might’ve worked… 

… Until he felt Arachnir tug on his lip and stab the needle through his flesh.

“I know.”


	3. A Failed Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A worry-stricken and furious Geralt goes to trade his coin for Jaskier, but a certain spider doesn't exactly make that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, admittedly, a much gorier one than chapters one and two, so be wary if ye be squeamish. Still, it's nothing that would be too graphic for the show. Canon-typical violence and all that jazz.

Storm clouds formed overhead as Geralt rode to where Jaskier was supposedly being held; those clouds would've seemed threatening to anyone other than a Witcher who was both pissed off and worried almost to death. Right now, the only looming threat for Geralt was that of his kidnapped dandelion. He kept the bard’s lute strapped to his back, and it was actually an easy task, considering he just had to lay it over his sword. He knew that the best way to keep the instrument from coming to harm was to keep it on his person.

He may not have been able to protect Jaskier, but nothing was going to stop him from protecting his flower’s most prized possession.

He twisted his neck to look at the instrument, and he found it impossible not to eye Renfri's brooch as it glinted on his sword.

Worry started to sink her teeth further into Geralt's heart, having latched onto it when he found that Jaskier was missing and not let go since, but he tried to ignore it as he kept moving. Still, he felt like his hands were destined to be unceasingly soaked with the blood of the people he loved so foolishly. First, it was Renfri’s blood, and now… 

_No._ Geralt told himself. _There’s no way to know for sure that Jaskier is hurt._

Despite how he held himself together, fear for the bard followed the Witcher like a shadow. No, it was more accurate to say that it clung to him like he himself clung to Roach’s reins. With every clop of his horse’s hooves, horrible thoughts about what might’ve happened to Jaskier flashed in his mind.

_What if he’s chained up somewhere?_

Clop.

_What if he’s being passed around?_

Clop.

_What _if_ he’s being tortured? _

Clop.

_What if he’s…_

Clop.

_What if he’s…_

Geralt shook his head as if he was trying to physically force the thoughts to stop. It wouldn’t do any good to worry at this point. Roach was going as fast as she could, and Geralt was getting closer to the disclosed location with her every stride.

He was going to find Jaskier, he was going to cut down the bastard who took him, and he was going to make sure that nothing like this ever happened to him again.

Despite the uncertainty that wracked the Witcher’s mind, he was sure of these things.

It was twilight when Geralt finally got to the place - a large, dingy cabin in the woods. As if the fact that it was an old cabin in the middle of the woods wasn’t unnerving enough, the whole place just looked… bad. After Geralt hopped off of Roach, set Jaskier’s lute against a tree just a few feet away, and told her to stay put - giving her some reassuring pats as he did - he stepped closer to the cabin and saw that the wood which made up it’s exterior was rotting, and spider webs ran along the entire thing, from every concave corner to the tiniest cracks. The fact that someone as sweet and lovely as Jaskier was probably forced to be somewhere as repulsive as this - unless he was actually being kept somewhere else, which would have been much worse - made something in his stomach want to jump into his throat.

_Note to self: once you find Jaskier, check him for spider bites._

Seconds after making that mental note, Geralt realized something: even though he hadn’t done so much as take one step into the hovel yet, he could sense how scared Jaskier was just from where he was standing (which was a few feet away from the door that barely stayed upright on it’s rickety hinges). Something about what he sensed was just so… vulnerable. The Witcher wasn’t sure if he was relieved that Jaskier was certainly in this cabin - or very close by, at least - or if he was horrifically concerned with the fact that he could sense Jaskier’s fear, despite how little effort he was trying to put into it. This was one of the reasons he dreaded using that sixth sense of his, and why, before he arrived at the cabin, he actually decided against trying to use it.

As much as he would've denied it if someone asked, he was scared of what he would find out.

One, he may have failed to sense Jaskier at all, which would have led him to believe that he was either being kept somewhere else, or there was no life to sense.

Two, he would sense Jaskier’s presence, but he would also sense the same things he did now - fear and vulnerability - and realize the awful state his dandelion was in.

Apparently, however, that choice was voided. 

Geralt hoped that Jaskier was unharmed, but with every second, it became less and less likely that such was the case.

_Fuck._

Anyone else would have laughed, and if it were anyone else dealing with this, he may have spared a bemused scoff; a Witcher - a mutant monster-hunter, hardened by grueling trials and the cruel world around him - terrified of finding out that a goofy, rambling, adorable bard had gotten hurt.

Still, he had to harden himself; yes, he now knew that Jaskier was here, and yes, it was clear that he was in an undesirable emotional state, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had been physically harmed. Those feelings - _those horrible feelings that his sweet flower should never, ever feel_ \- may have just come from the fact that he was kidnapped, not to mention kept in such a disgusting place.

Though the chance was infinitesimal in Geralt’s mind, he knew that there was still a possibility that his bard was unharmed, at least in a physical sense.

Besides, even if Geralt knew for a fact that Jaskier was tortured or injured, that was no reason to just stand there and be upset. In fact, now was a more important time than ever to force himself to be a man of steel and face the situation. He had to silence the part of him that was terrified for one of the only people he so foolishly allowed himself to care about, and he had to present himself as the cold, uncaring monster-slayer (not butcher, _never_ butcher) that the world saw him as.

For now, until Jaskier was safe in his arms, he had to stop being Geralt and start being Geralt of Rivia.

He took out his sword and sliced through the revolting webs that sprawled across the door, making a perfectly Geralt-sized opening for himself.

To his surprise, before he even reached out to open the door, he was met with a hissing, venomously sweet voice. 

_“Oh, do be gentle in regards to the door, will you?”_

Geralt kicked down the door.

The poor excuse for a door fell to the ground, taking more spiderwebs with it. Inevitably, some strands of webbing fell on Geralt, who cringed as he brushed them off.

When he saw the cabin’s interior, he found that it wasn’t a cabin so much as it was a house of horrors. The interior walls were black, but more disgusting spider webs covered the walls, spreading across every possible corner and crack in the walls. It appeared that there was one somewhat large room that he just walked into - large for a cabin in the woods, at least. To the right, there was a short hallway where he knew there must have been a few other, smaller rooms. Geralt knew that Jaskier was in one of those rooms, and as soon as the Witcher had an opportunity to find him without making the situation worse, he would seize it.

For now, he had a spider to deal with.

Arachnir sat at a table across the room, a few, sparing rays of light shining on him as they came in from a boarded up window - one of three, another being next to the door (and Geralt) and the third being on the left wall, opposite the hall. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers. This provided the perfect little cushion for him to rest his chin atop his hands condescendingly.

“Wow, you really have no clue what it means to be gentle, do you?” The spider tilted his head with a smirk.

“Were you gentle with Jaskier when you kidnapped him?” Geralt coldly retorted as he approached, stepping over loose strands of webbing as he did. The Witcher thought that since he had made his presence known, Jaskier would have tried to draw attention to himself if he could, but it didn’t happen. At this, Geralt assumed that something probably stopped Jaskier from being able to call out to him, and he hoped it was nothing more than a piece of cloth in his mouth or something.

Though he didn’t know it yet, it was far worse than that.

Anyway, Geralt continued to walk forward until he was right across the table from his bard’s abductor, who seemed surprisingly unintimidated.

“So, the bard actually means something to you after all, doesn’t he, Geralt of Rivia? I’m surprised something like you cared enough to come here.” Arachnir scanned him up and down with his eyes before he raised his eyebrows as if to prompt Geralt to do something. “With the coin, no less, I presume?”

“Something like me could cut you down right now, if it wanted.” Geralt responded coldly.

What he didn’t tell Arachnir was this: the only reason the Witcher hadn’t killed him already was because he had no clue whether or not it would worsen Jaskier’s situation.

 _Killing this bastard,_ Geralt told himself, _can wait until Jaskier is safe._

Indeed, he kept telling himself that as he took out a pouch containing all of his and Jaskier's money. It was simple; he would give over the money in exchange for Jaskier, get the bard somewhere safe, and then kill this disgusting spider and reclaim his and the bard’s money. Easy enough.

At least, it should have been.

“That’s _really_ all the coin you have?” Arachnir said as he eyed the bag suspiciously. “That’s certainly bizarre, considering all the expensive contracts you undertake as a Witcher. What have you spent so much money on that you only have that much left? What material things would interest something like you?”

“Well, Witchers need to eat and sleep, so… food… a few nights at an inn somewhere, literally _anything_ other than this horseshit…” Geralt explained, rolling his eyes as he held the bag in his fist, keeping it close to his chest.

“How interesting! That bard said the exact same thing!” Arachnir said this with a laugh of genuine amusement, as if they were having a casual chat about a funny coincidence instead of going through a ransom exchange. “You know, he called your name before, but I guess you weren’t listening.”

Geralt’s patience thinned, and this was saying a lot, considering how Geralt's patience was in a perpetual state of thinness, and it had been absolutely paper-thin ever since Jaskier’s abduction. He pursed his lips as he waited to hand over the money so he could just get his dandelion back.

“Yeah, sure, I wasn’t listening. In fact, I didn’t listen so much that you put all those spider webs in my way so I couldn’t get to him. Definitely, _that’s_ why I didn’t come for him when he called.” Geralt said with bitter, resentful sarcasm.

“No, no, I meant before…” Arachnir smiled to himself in sick amusement at the memory, almost as if he was fond of it. This infuriated Geralt just as much as it made guilt bubble up inside him; to know that there was another time that his buttercup called out to him, only to receive nothing but his silence in return…

“...Well,” Arachnir continued with a shrug, “It’s not like he can call for you now.”

A chill went down the Witcher’s body at those words.

“Why not?” he demanded to know.

Arachnir said nothing, almost as if he was terrified to admit what he did.

Good.

He fucking should have been.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t infuriate Geralt, who leaned in and planted his hands on the table to tower over the spider, his eyes locked in a furious glare as he furrowed his eyebrows.

 _“Why. Not.”_ he growled through gritted teeth. He started to take deep breaths through his nose in an attempt to keep himself from running this bastard through, but after only a few seconds of taking such deep breaths while he was only inches from Arachnir’s face, his fury skyrocketed, and the urge to stab him became a thousand times stronger.

_“I smell his blood on you.”_

Arachnir recoiled from the barely-restrained fury that seemed to radiate off of Geralt.

“Don’t - don’t be stupid!” He reached out and shakily pointed to the bag of coins in Geralt’s hand. “You’re holding that damn pouch so close to your-”

Geralt used his free hand to grab Arachnir’s outreached one and hold his thin, bony wrist in a vice grip.

_“Listen. The fuck. To me. I’ve spent countless years slaying miserable monsters like you and watching their blood seep into the ground they walked on only seconds before. While you’ve been doing nothing but collecting ransom money and spinning little webs, I’ve waded through pools of blood like you’d wade in a fucking pond. I’ve been around long enough to know the difference between the smell of metal and the smell of blood, and I smell my bard’s blood on you.”_

He brought the spider’s hand close to his own face - still keeping it in such a tight grip that it couldn’t do much but twitch - and he smelled it. Arachnir used his other hand to try in vain to free the first one, but it didn’t do anything but give the Witcher the chance to smell both hands rather than just one.

When he was done, he slowly drew his rage-filled yellow eyes from Arachnir’s hands to his pathetic, terrified face.

 _“Your hands were covered in it. Fucking soaked.”_ Geralt hissed.

“It’s… it’s… fuck, it’s not _my_ fault he didn’t know how to shut the fuck up! I had to make him quiet somehow! You should have told him to keep his damn mouth shut.” Arachnir snapped.

Geralt realized why Jaskier hadn’t tried calling out for him already.

He couldn’t.

This fucking bastard didn’t just gag him, he… he _did_ something to him. The Witcher didn’t know what, but he did know one thing… 

Whatever he did, he was going to pay for it. Right here. Right fucking now.

For a moment, Geralt thought to draw his sword, but he subsequently realized it would be better - more poetic, as Jaskier would say - for him to kill his buttercup’s tormentor with his buttercup’s own weapon. So, with one hand, Geralt pulled Arachnir forward by his wrist, and with the other, he pulled out Jaskier’s dagger and… 

_“THIS IS FOR JASKIER.”_

...Stabbed Arachnir in the gut.

There was a small part of the Witcher that berated himself for being so brutal without considering how it would backfire, but as he twisted the knife and yanked it out, he found that the other, far bigger parts of him couldn’t give less of a damn.

As Arachnir started to collapse over the table, Geralt twisted him so he was on his back; as monstrous as it was, he wanted to see the agony in the bastard’s face as he died.

But despite how much pain Arachnir seemed to be in, he grinned an enormous grin from ear to ear.

_What the fuck?_

“Y-y-you’ll never hear his voice again…” he taunted through bloodstained teeth as blood bubbled up from his mouth.

“You think you can fool me like that, spider? I can sense his presence. I know he’s alive.” Geralt told him while he grabbed a fistful of Arachnir’s hair to hold his head up.

“I-I-I ssssaid what I sssssaid. You sssilenced him forever.” A wild gleam appeared in his eyes as he let out a laugh. “YOU SILENCED HIM FOR-FUCKING-EV-”

Geralt slit his throat, finally shutting the bastard up.

Arachnir’s eyes widened and he gasped at the slice - as much as a slit throat would allow, anyway - but as the shock passed, that horrendous, smug grin crept back onto his face.

And it stayed there forever.

Geralt watched as Arachnir’s blood soaked the webs around both him and the corpse, and he couldn’t deny the regret that bubbled in his gut; he had a feeling that somehow, he had just made a horrible, horrible mistake.

 _Whatever._ Geralt tried to shake away the feeling. _He’s dead. Find Jaskier. Now._

He could still sense Jaskier’s presence - terrified and vulnerable - but he still didn’t utilize his “sixth sense” to track him. He knew that this place was probably crawling with spiders - quite literally, no less - and he knew that they would just muddle his senses and give him a headache. Instead, he just headed down the short hallway as he took a mental note to be very attentive to the sounds around him. Geralt knew that for some horrible reason, Jaskier couldn’t call out to him, so he had to listen for other kinds of noise.

It wasn’t until he got close to the end of the hall that he heard something.

Tapping. The sound of someone frantically tapping their foot on the ground.

_Jaskier._

Geralt ran to the source of the sound - a room at the far end of the hall, on the right - and tried opening the locked door. Interestingly enough, it didn’t open.

“Jaskier, I’m here. Are you in there?” he asked through the door, his voice as calm as he could force it to be. There was no reason to scream through the door, considering how shaken he knew his dandelion was.

His question was met with more frantic tapping. Geralt nodded to himself before he stepped back and, in typical Geralt of Rivia fashion, kicked the door down.

He grabbed the door before it had the chance to land and either frighten or hurt the bard. As gently as he could, he set it aside.

When he looked into that room, the cold, brutal Witcher by the name of Geralt of Rivia disappeared, leaving only Geralt.

Geralt, who felt relief wash over him when he saw that Jaskier was inside; he was bound to a chair by the wrists and ankles, but he was _here_ , right in front of him.

Geralt, who felt worry sink her claws into him when he saw how Jaskier’s whole body shook, his head hanging down and his back curled forward - both making it very hard for the Witcher to see his face - and the only vocal sounds from him being barely-audible whimpers.

Geralt, who felt horror pierce his heart when he saw how Jaskier’s blood stained his white shirt and streaked down his chest and neck, his light blue doublet with those ridiculous, poofy shoulder pieces hanging haphazardly off his shoulders.

_“Jaskier!”_

He ran to the bard with more speed than he had ever run to anyone or anything else. Getting down on one knee, he ripped away Jaskier’s bonds. The spider silk was strong - especially for a human with restricted movement - but it was no match for Geralt. He ripped away the layers of webbing around Jasker’s ankles first, but after he stood up and did the same to his wrists, the bard threw his forearms over his face before Geralt even got the chance to see it.

This was unusual for Jaskier; if there was one thing his beloved buttercup loved flaunting more than his music, it was his looks - _holy fuck, did they deserve to be flaunted_ \- so to see Jaskier of all people try so hard to hide his face was, to say the least, extremely concerning.

"Jaskier, let me see." Geralt gently tried to coax the sweet bard into showing him what happened to his face, only to be met with a few frantic head-shakes.

“Jaskier, I can’t help you if you don’t let me see. You’ll have to put your arms down eventually."

More head-shakes, this time with heartbreaking whimpers.

The Witcher sighed and grabbed Jaskier’s arms, trying his best to be gentle while keeping a firm grip.

"Please, Jaskier."

As shaken as he was, Jaskier complied, slowly bringing down his arms.

First, Geralt saw his eyes - those bloodshot, puffy blue eyes that looked up at Geralt like a scared child, brimming with pain and vulnerability.

Then, Geralt saw his nose and cheeks. Tears both old and new stained them as he shakily breathed through his nose.

Finally, Geralt saw his mouth.

The sight made him sick.

Regret hit him like a tidal wave. He wished that he could take back every time he told the bard to shut up, or insulted his singing, or made him feel like his voice wasn't the most precious thing in the world.

It was. Oh, sweet Melitele, it _was_.

In that moment, he would have given anything to fix what he saw, to make it so it never happened. Not to him. Not to sweet, sweet Jaskier. He would have given up every coin he had. He would have given up any limb - fuck, he would have chopped it off _himself_. If he knew that dying would reverse this, he'd drop dead in an instant.

But all he could do was look down at his bard in horror, his yellow eyes on the verge of tears at what that spiderous bastard did to him.

Blood streaked down his chin and around his mouth, but even that wasn't the worst thing he saw.

The worst thing he saw was the black thread that stitched his lips together. The horrible string threaded through his lips, crudely piercing through his flesh as the stitches went up and down his mouth.

This is what Arachnir meant, Geralt realized with disgust, when he said the bard wouldn't be able to call out for him, and that he had to "make him quiet somehow."

Jaskier's mouth was sewn shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......yeah  
> Also, the line about how Geralt had to force himself to be a "man of steel" totally isn't a nod to the fact that Henry Cavill has played both Geralt and Superman... nooope...  
> By the way, if you understood what I was trying to reference with Ar*chn*r saying "He called your name before, but I guess you weren't listening!" you've got 100% IMPECCABLE taste.


	4. As Your Tormentor Perishes, So Does Your Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tormented Jaskier is left alone with agonized thoughts. As Arachnir's body cools, Geralt realizes the horrific consequences of what he's done.  
> Alternatively: If the Jaskier Whump in last chapter wasn't enough, HOOOOO BOY-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is mostly the last chapter as told through Jaskier's perspective. I know that sounds like filler, but trust me when I say it isn't. The second half of the chapter starts to move the plot a little, but by "starts to move the plot a little", I also mean, "makes both the characters whom I love and cherish much sadder than they already were."  
> Yeah this is why I added the tag "It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better".

To say that Jaskier was in pain would be the understatement of the century; that would be like reducing everything he had gone through to the punctures around his lips.

That would mean ignoring the violation. The fear. The helplessness. The despair. _Everything_.

It would mean ignoring how Arachnir tortured him despite how he cried, how he begged, how he struggled to scream with his jaw clamped shut; it would mean ignoring the few times that bastard would start to pull the thread back out of his lips - as if he had enough of Jaskier’s pleas and decided to have mercy - only to pull it back through with even more force.

It would mean ignoring the times that motherfucker _taunted_ him as he sobbed.

 _“Oh, where’s your Witcher now?” -_ _“Do call me an idiotic moniker again! I’d love for you to try!” - "_ _Oh, is this a new song? I don’t think I’ve heard it yet! It’s far better than that coin tossing one!”_

When Arachnir finished silencing the bard, he took off the webbing that held his head and chest against the wall, leaving him with the bonds around his wrists and ankles. As Jaskier lurched forward and drew his head down; he wasn’t sure what he felt more; relieved because it was over, or hurt, helpless, and violated because it happened?

The silenced bard remembered how Arachnir got inches away from his face and said something; he wasn’t sure what the exact words were - honestly, after the horror he endured just minutes before and was still enduring now, it was a miracle that he could pay attention to anything that wasn’t the pain in his lips or the shattering of his pride - but it sounded like it was something about how he wouldn’t be defending that Witcher anymore.

Using some of the last drops of of strength he still had, Jaskier drew his head back and tried to headbutt the spider. It might’ve caused him more pain, but if it meant hurting this spiderous bastard even a little bit, he didn’t care. 

Despite how much effort it took for Jaskier to try to hit his tormentor, all Arachnir had to do in order to dodge the blow was take a step back. Damn it.

He let out a cruel laugh and started taunting Jaskier again, and while the poor, barely-cognizant dandelion didn’t hear most of it, he did hear the last part - mostly because it was screamed in his face:

_“Why are you still trying to fight me? Give it up already! Don’t you get it? I broke you! I FUCKING BROKE YOU!”_

Fuck, didn’t this bastard know that was _why_ he was still trying?

Arachnir left a few minutes after that. As he did, he said something about going out to wait for that Witcher. There was one last thing he said before leaving Jaskier alone.

_“You’d better hope that monster can keep his temper in control. He’d better keep his sword sheathed, too. If something, well… goes awry, so to speak, and I…”_

He pretended to choke himself.

_“...Well. You’re fucked.”_

With that, Arachnir left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Jaskier didn’t know how long he sat there after that, in agony and alone. It may have been a matter of minutes or a matter of hours; to him, every minute felt like an hour. He could have been there for five hours (which he was) or five days - he was in too much pain to know the difference.

Sometimes, he would start bashing the back of his head against the wall. He wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to force his brain to stop registering the pain in his lips, or if it was because he was trying to quell the pain - clawing at the armrests and digging his feet into the ground stopped working a long time ago - or if he was trying to knock himself out, or if he was trying to put himself out of his misery.

It was mostly the last one.

Jaskier would have rather died than continue to live in this agony; he wished that Arachnir would just use those disgusting, bony fingers of his to snap his fucking neck, or use that thread for a noose, or stab that needle into his jugular and bleed him out - anything if it stopped this.

His lips made him _human_. They let him eat. They let him drink. They let him speak. They let him sing. And Arachnir took all those things away from him because he argued? Because he talked a bit too much? Fuck, he talked too much around Geralt all the time, but he never would’ve done this. He didn't doubt that there may have been times where the Witcher wanted nothing more than for him to shut the fuck up, but he would never do something like this. That's what set that spider apart from his Witcher. It's like he said to Arachnir before he was tortured for it; only one of them was a monster, and it wasn't Geralt.

Eventually, the bard heard the unmistakable sound of a horse's hooves clipping and clopping against the ground. He knew it was Roach, and wherever there was Roach, there was Geralt.

As relieved as he was that Geralt actually came for him, something in his stomach twisted at the thought of his White Wolf seeing him like this -

_He can’t see me like this. Please._

_Why not? He’d probably be overjoyed that I’ve finally shut up._

_I can’t even tell him that I… that I…_

_He would never say those words back to me anyway._

\- but that didn’t stop him from instinctively trying to open his mouth and scream through the stitches.

He shouldn’t have done that.

The pain was unbearable, even though the stitches had only been pulled by a hair-thin length. It was so sudden and horrible that his stomach started churning, and something in his stomach threatened to jump into his throat; for a moment, Jaskier feared that he would die choking on his own vomit.

_No no no. Don’t puke. Please don’t fucking puke._

Jaskier took deep breaths through his nose over and over and fucking over again, trying desperately to fight the rising bile until his stomach finally settled down.

His torso lurched forward again - having stiffened upright moments before when he was trying to keep himself from vomiting - and his head hung down. His tears fell into his lap as he shook. Despite how he tried tapping his foot against the ground, it didn’t get even the slightest bit of Geralt’s attention as Jaskier heard him approach Arachnir. He tried for a minute, but it was futile, not to mention it exhausted him - he was already so damn weak.

He couldn’t make a sound; he had to be quiet and wait for Geralt. All the while, he hoped to anyone he could hope to that Geralt wouldn’t kill Arachnir; at least, not until he reversed whatever made these stitches permanent.

Jaskier couldn’t actually hear a word of what they said to one another; it was like he was a child, laying in bed late at night as he heard his parents fight from across the house; he didn’t know what was being said, just that it was bad. The throbbing in his head - a remnant from the many times he slammed the back of his head against that wall - didn’t allow him to listen in on much, but he heard Geralt yelling something, Arachnir groaning in pain, followed by the sound of something landing on a table. Finally, he heard the sound of Arachnir choking on something.

_Blood? Was he choking on blood? Was he dying? Oh god, no, please no. HE CAN’T DIE BEFORE HE FIXES WHAT HE DID TO ME._

The bard forced himself to calm down, telling himself that maybe Geralt merely knocked Arachnir unconscious, that maybe he choked on some water, that the loud crashing noise came from one of them tripping over something - _anything_ but the thing he feared most.

He could hear Geralt as he walked down the hall; his steps were soft and he was quiet, as if he knew Jaskier couldn’t make much noise.

Weak and frantic as it was, he started tapping his foot on the ground again, desperate to be heard.

Geralt ran to the door of the room he was kept in, making Jaskier both relieved and terrified.

_He’s here! Oh god, finally, Geralt came for me!_

_No, no, he can’t see me like this. It’s humiliating. It hurts._

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat when Geralt knocked gently on the door. He didn’t think “gently” was a word he would ever use to describe the Witcher, but he didn’t care much about that right now.

“Jaskier, I’m here.” Jaskier had no clue his voice could sound so soft. “Are you in there?”

He nodded frantically - even though he knew Geralt couldn’t see it - as he tapped even harder on the ground.

_Yes! Yes, I’m here, Geralt!_

_NO STAY AWAY PLEASE I’M SO BROKEN YOU CAN’T SEE ME LIKE THIS_

The desperate bard heard Geralt take a few steps back before he heard the sound of the Witcher’s foot crashing into the door and ripping it off the hinges. He instinctively flinched as he prepared for it to slam on the ground, but Geralt caught it before it could land. Was he trying to make sure it wouldn’t startle Jaskier? The bard wasn’t sure, but he could feel the Witcher’s eyes on him as he kept his head down. 

_“Jaskier!”_

\-----------

Geralt looked down at his bard in horror. That spider sewed his mouth shut; he _sewed_ his _fucking mouth_ shut. Oh, how the Witcher wished he hadn’t killed Arachnir so quickly; he wished he could go back and take his time, torturing him and drawing out the same pleas of mercy that Jaskier must have cried out until… until he couldn’t.

As it was - as the trembling, terrified bard looked up at him - he figured that the best thing he could do was get the both of them out of there and get Jaskier to a doctor. The Witcher slowly lifted Jaskier up by his wrists until he was on his feet.

“Do you think you can walk?” Geralt asked as he gently pulled Jaskier forward. He started to add “or do you need help?” but he stopped himself. Yes-or-no questions were probably best for now.

Jaskier nodded and took a few shaky steps forward. Geralt acknowledged this and let his hands go, but he was still cautious enough to put an arm around Jaskier's waist so he didn't fall.

As he started to take Jaskier out of the building, he shielded him from seeing Arachnir’s corpse; he knew that as long as his mouth was sewn shut, a nauseous Jaskier was bad news. Still, the bard tried in vain to turn himself around to look at at his corpse. Geralt didn't understand, so he initially passed it off as Jaskier being in shock; at the time, this conclusion made total sense to him, so kept moving the both of them forward until they were out of what was left of the front doorway.

Jaskier blinked in the light as Geralt finally took him out of that godforsaken cabin, his eyes looking up at how storm clouds congregated across the deep blue sky as the sun set. He wanted to ask where The Witcher was trying to take him, but he only managed to point around him with a confused look.

Geralt understood him loud and clear.

"I'm taking you to a doctor, Jaskier. You need those out immediately." he told him, referring to… well, neither of the two wanted to talk about them (and Jaskier literally couldn't).

That was when Jaskier turned his head back towards the cabin and, much to Geralt's surprise, broke free from his grip. The bard staggered back a few feet, and although he faced Geralt, he was clearly trying to get back to the cabin. The Witcher in front of him was confused beyond belief.

 _Why?_ he wondered. _Why_ _would he ever want to go back in there? Did that bastard mess with his mind or something?_

The Witcher's blood boiled at the thought of that disgusting creature violating Jaskier even further by doing something to his mind -

 _Didn't that bastard make him suffer_ enough? _Was it not enough to sew his fucking mouth shut? To leave him in that room, shaking and sobbing? WASN'T THAT E-FUCKING-NOUGH?_

\- but before he had the chance to approach him again, Jaskier made a frantic, desperate gesture of a pen writing on paper. He had something he needed to say.

Geralt acknowledged this and ran to Roach's saddlebag, taking out the bard's notebook; he had always used it for his song lyrics, as well as taking notes for potential song lyrics. He also used it to gush about Geralt, but that was a secret Jaskier kept to himself. Anyway, it was now one of the bard’s only ways to communicate.

The Witcher handed the book to him with a stick of charcoal. Why he had the charcoal in Roach’s saddlebag was a mystery, but not one that either party cared about solving.

With trembling hands, Jaskier flipped it open to a blank page and wrote out what he desperately needed Geralt to know.

_Arachnir put a spell on the thread. He made it unbreakable. Permanent. Impossible to remove. He said he was the only one who could undo the spell._

He frantically held out the page to the Witcher; as he read it, his expression went from a confused one to a horrified one. Guilt and regret stared to worm their way into his mind as he remembered what he did.

Jaskier saw how his expression changed, and Geralt could tell that it worried the hell out of him for obvious reasons. Even though he was trained all his life to be cold and uncaring, his heart ached as he looked at the bard, who's eyebrows upturned as he started to breathe harder. Looking down at the book once more, he frantically scribbled something else before he showed the Witcher again.

_Did you kill him?_

Geralt hesitated.

Jaskier underlined the question and desperately tapped the page with his finger. Geralt couldn't bear to see that pleading look in his eyes; he was begging for the Witcher to say he didn't kill that miserable little spider.

But... 

"If I knew," Geralt sighed, "I wouldn't have-"

As he watched Jaskier realize how hopeless his situation was - no, how hopeless _Geralt_ had made his situation by being so damn impulsive - the rest of the sentence died on his tongue.

This is why that spider said Geralt would never hear Jaskier's voice again, and he silenced him forever. The Witcher thought he was just being delusional, or he was trying to intimidate him during his last moments, but now, Geralt understood exactly what he meant.

He may have killed Jaskier's tormentor, but he also destroyed Jaskier’s only chance at ever speaking again.

The bard looked down at the ground and took deep breaths through his nose, despondent for a few moments. Geralt tried to approach Jaskier, but the bard backed away from the Witcher's advances, trembling as he turned his head.

Jaskier couldn’t even look Geralt in the eye.

He deserved that, of course - he inadvertently made sure that Jaskier, the person who meant more to him than anything in the world, would never be able to open his mouth again - but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

The Witcher could feel the guilt eating him alive; he never should have left Jaskier alone. He never should have killed Arachnir. He never should have-

This wasn’t the time for what he never should have done; it was useless anyway. Despite the fact that Jaskier was the one who couldn’t open his mouth without tearing his lips apart, Geralt was the one who was at a loss for words.

Finally, he eyed the bard’s lute and spoke up.

“Your lute is up against that tree.” Geralt nodded in its direction. “Roach protected it.”

Jaskier looked to where he was referring to - apparently making a conscious effort to avoid looking at the Witcher - and stumbled over to the lute.

But he didn’t pick it up.

Instead, the now silent bard sat down with his back against the tree before he pulled the lute close to his chest, his anguished eyes staring ahead at nothing. Jaskier ran his fingers across the strings, playing a dissonant chord with his trembling hands. No matter how intricately he played, no matter the beauty of his musical compositions, no lyric would ever leave his lips again.

As new tears ran down Jaskier’s face, he clearly knew this.

Geralt wanted to approach him, but he decided against such a thing. It was his fault that the buttercup was stuck like this anyway. He didn’t dare, even in his mind, to refer to him as _his_ buttercup - not after what he did; not after realizing the kind of life he damned the bard to.

Still, when the Witcher heard Jaskier start to whimper through the stitches as he held his lute close to his chest, clinging to it the same way a terrified child would desperately cling to a stuffed animal, something in his chest shattered into a million pieces.

_What has he done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... do any of you know that GIF from Joey's Great Witcher Bake Off where Joey Batey looks into the camera, calmly says "literature", and drops the book he's holding on the ground without breaking eye contact? Yeah I feel like that's all of you @ me at this point.
> 
> EDIT: Wow I kept this up for like 24 hours and didn't ONCE notice, through ALL MY PROOFREADING, that I accidentally wrote "the Jaskier's" near the end instead of just "Jaskier's". Like I'm Starfire or smth. Smh.


	5. The Things That Rain Can't Wash Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt struggles to stop Jaskier from shunning him, and as the two make camp for the night, Jaskier struggles to keep himself together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> If you're triggered by suicide notes/talking someone out of attempting, this chapter (starting after the horizontal line break) and the next may be unsuitable for you. There will be no actual suicide/suicide attempts in this story.

The sun had set below the mountains when Geralt finally spoke up again, knowing how Jaskier didn’t want the Witcher near him, but also not daring to leave Jaskier alone. That’s how all of this happened in the first place.

“It’ll be getting dark soon, and it looks like it’s going to rain pretty heavily tonight.” Geralt stated the obvious. “We should try to find an inn or something for now.”

Jaskier didn’t acknowledge him at first, but to Geralt, it looked like the thought of a warm bed and actual sleep - not unconsciousness induced by drugs or pain - enticed him more than his bitterness towards the Witcher. He started to stand up, but Geralt could tell it was hard for him. He reached towards the bard in an attempt to help him up, but Jaskier recoiled from the touch and strenuously stood up on his own.

 _Yeah, should have expected that._ Geralt thought, pursing his lips. _Still hurts._

After Geralt climbed atop Roach, he tried again to help Jaskier to do the same. Once again, the silent songbird rejected his help and did so on his own, using what must have been a huge amount of what little strength he had to get behind Geralt. As they rode, the Witcher glanced over his shoulder a few times to make sure Jaskier was still alert, for he thought that the last thing either of them wanted was for the bard to pass out and fall off Roach because he lost his grip on her saddle.

Every time Geralt looked back to Jaskier, he was still awake; every time Geralt looked back to Jaskier, he was looking away. Whether he was looking at the clouded, dusky sky, or at the passing trees, or at a crease in the leather of Roach’s saddle, his gaze was everywhere but on the Witcher.

As much as it hurt Geralt, he tried to suppress how he felt about Jaskier shunning him. Whether or not he intended for this to happen, it didn’t change a thing. No matter how horribly guilty Geralt felt, none of that could possibly compare to the pain that Jaskier was going through.

Jaskier was a _bard_ ** _._ **

His voice was one of his greatest gifts that Destiny could bestow upon a person. Singing was his life - it was everything to him. Geralt knew that there were very few things that Jaskier held closer to his heart than his songs; that there was nothing that made Jaskier happier than his melodies. The Witcher didn’t understand why he loved to use his voice so much - for most of his life, Geralt only considered his own voice good for grunting, swearing, and the not-so-occasional “hmm.” - but he knew the bard loved it so much that he decided to dedicate his life to it.

But beyond that, Jaskier was a _person_.

Geralt may not have been a human - at least, not in a very, very long time - but that didn’t mean he didn’t know what it meant to be _dehumanized_ . Jaskier wasn’t just tortured; he was stripped of one of the things that made him a person. Even if singing was taken out of the equation - if Jaskier was anything but a bard who made a living and had a passion in using his voice - what happened to him was still abhorrently cruel. His mouth allowed him to be _human_ \- to speak, to be expressive, to drink, to eat - and those things were ripped away from him. 

_Fuck._ Geralt suddenly thought to himself. _How is Jaskier not going to starve? Or die of dehydration?_

As if there weren’t already enough problems, Roach became exhausted after about an hour of riding. It was already starting to drizzle, and by the looks of it, there was no inn - or anything that remotely resembled a suitable shelter, for that matter - within walking distance. So, it seemed that the guilt-ridden Witcher and the silent bard - both, at this point, living and breathing oxymorons - were stuck without a roof over their heads for the night.

“Roach is exhausted. She won’t be going much further. It doesn’t seem like there’s any inn or doctor within walking distance, either.” Geralt told Jaskier with a sigh, “It looks like we’ll have to set up camp for tonight.”

Jaskier acknowledged this as he climbed off of Roach before Geralt did. As it appeared to the Witcher, this was clearly an effort to make sure Geralt didn’t get down first and try to help him. It was definitely another way of trying to give the Witcher the cold shoulder, and as much as it hurt him, it was more heartbreaking watching him stagger forward after landing on the ground, just barely regaining his footing.

Geralt sighed as he climbed off of Roach.

"Jaskier, you're we-" no, he didn't dare call him weak, "your strength isn't at your best. You shouldn't have done that on your own. What if you got hurt?"

For the first time since learning that Geralt killed Arachnir, Jaskier actually made an effort to respond to the Witcher - albeit bitterly. The bard pivoted around to face him, and with a glare, he pointed stiffly to his lips, as if to stress the fact that he had already gotten hurt.

“Hmm…” Geralt fell back on his most used response. “In any case, those piercings should be disinfected. The last thing you need is an infection.”

Geralt reached in Roach’s saddlebag and brought out a bottle and a rag. The bottle, about the length of his forearm, was filled with alcohol - something highly concentrated, a vodka or something, for neither party recollected what kind of booze it was, nor did they care. It wasn’t for drinking - much to Jaskier’s dismay when Geralt first told him that he bought it - but it was to be used as a disinfectant in the event that one of them was wounded and they couldn’t get to a doctor right away. However, since Geralt had his own witcher-y potions that were incredibly effective in healing him, as they had regenerative properties specific to him as a Witcher, it was mainly useful for Jaskier.

However, the one person it was actually useful for - the bleeding, anguished bard in front of him - didn’t seem very receptive to the idea of treatment as he backed away while the Witcher walked towards him.

Geralt sighed.

“Jaskier, you need treatment. I know you don’t want to come near me, but this will only make things worse.”

Jaskier scribbled something down in his journal and tore out the page, all but shoving it in Geralt’s face - just barely visible in the night:

_I’ve treated my own wounds before. I’ve had to do it plenty of times before I met you. No one is going to touch this except me - especially not you._

There was no way Geralt could force Jaskier to let him treat him, so he sighed again and handed the supplies over. The bard backed a few feet away until his back was against a tree. After he slid down until his knees were tucked to his chest and he was sitting on the ground, Jaskier uncapped the bottle. Geralt turned his back and pretended to get more supplies from Roach’s saddlebag.

In actuality, it wouldn’t have done much good to pull anything else out before he made fire, but the Witcher could tell that Jaskier didn’t want him to stare at him while he cleaned his own wounds. Still, Geralt couldn’t bring himself to leave him alone again, especially when he was so vulnerable and unable to cry out for help. So, this was how he could be nearby if Jaskier needed him without making the bard feel worse than he already did.

Still, when he heard Jaskier groaning through the stitches - huffing through his nose as if he was trying with all his strength to keep his jaw clamped shut despite the pain - the Witcher winced at how much that alcohol must have stung. He was no stranger to occasions where he needed to inflict pain on himself in order to prevent more pain later. He was as familiar with the discomfort of disinfecting his own wounds as Jaskier was - well, used to be - with singing.

It was only a minute or two before Jaskier’s muffled cries of pain died down, but it felt like forever to Geralt as he listened. When the bard went quiet again, the Witcher took that to mean it was clear to approach him again. So, he took one of the blankets off of Roach - Geralt took to keeping two sleep mats and blankets with him since Jaskier started traveling with him more often, and Roach herself didn’t mind the extra weight - and turned around.

Jaskier was looking up at the sky, as if he was trying to keep himself together, despite the pain in his lips. He had wiped away the blood around his mouth, and it looked like the bleeding had slowed almost to a stop. As his chest rose and fell laboriously, he drew his ice blue eyes to Geralt, who approached him, blanket in hand.

“I need to get firewood for tonight. I won’t go far - maybe a hundred feet away, at most.” He held the blanket out to Jaskier. “Take this. The last thing you need is to catch a cold.”

Jaskier recoiled, leaning to the side as if to put space between himself and Geralt’s hand. Earlier in the evening, Jaskier shunning the Witcher had been heartbreaking, but right now, it was frustrating.

 _“Jaskier.”_ Geralt snapped, his voice on the edge of a growl.

The bard flinched, the animosity in his eyes instantly vanishing, leaving only timidity in it's wake as he looked up at the Witcher who towered over him.

“I know you hate me. I get it, but for the love of _fuck_ , don’t put your life on the line for it! If you get a cold, your nose will stuff up. Is that what you fucking want right now?”

Geralt regretted the harshness of his words as soon as they left his lips, and that regret grew a thousand times stronger as the bard started shaking, his hands outstretched as he frantically shook his head. The now _incredibly_ guilt-ridden Witcher laid the blanket in his hands, and the bard quickly covered himself with it. Geralt sighed.

“I shouldn’t be longer than twenty minutes.”

He turned around and started to walk off, walking north from where Jaskier was, but he heard the bard start clapping frantically - clearly a frenzied attempt to get his attention - so he turned around.

Jaskier used his shaking hands to point to himself and make a stabbing motion. Geralt immediately knew what he meant.

“Your dagger?”

Jaskier nodded. A pang of hesitation hit Geralt; it was still on his person, but he hadn’t cleaned Arachnir’s blood off of it. To give Jaskier a weapon that was covered in the blood of the only person who could reverse his torture… to remind him of how hopeless he was… 

“I told you. I won’t be far.”

Jaskier repeated the motion before he desperately pointed to himself. Of course, it would have been idiotic for the Witcher to leave Jaskier with no weapon, especially when he had no way to cry out for help.

Geralt sighed and walked back over to him, reluctantly setting the blood-crusted dagger in front of him. It was at this moment, as Jaskier looked at the dagger with a horrified expression, that the Witcher realized how cruel it had been to use the dagger to slay Arachnir. At the time, sure, it seemed poetic - killing the tormentor of someone he loved with their own weapon sounded like something from one of Jaskier’s ballads, after all - but now, it was the opposite; it was a reminder of how Geralt had unknowingly doomed the bard to silence, and how he used the bard’s own dagger to do it.

“I…”

Geralt couldn’t find the right words to say.

“...I did it for you, Jaskier. That spider… I could smell your blood on him. When he said he did something to silence you… it made my blood boil. That’s why I did it. I had no idea it would lead to this bullshit.”

Jaskier made no effort to continue communicating, but as he took the dagger into his hands, his eyes stuck to the weapon and stopped meeting Geralt’s gaze.

Taking that to mean that the bard had stopped acknowledging his presence, Geralt headed out to get firewood.

As the Witcher hauled branches and logs for a fire, grabbing handfuls of dry grass to use for kindling as well, he tried to keep his mind focused on the one task. The drizzle of rainfall was going to get much worse tonight, and rain-soaked firemaking materials would not do.

Still, he couldn’t keep his mind away from Jaskier. The pain in his eyes. The blood around his mouth and on his shirt. The thread in his lips. The sounds of his whimpers.

Above all, the one thing he found hardest to ignore was the harshness of his words. Geralt knew Jaskier didn’t deserve the way he was speaking to him, but as much as he regretted his words, he was too proud to admit it. Now, in his mind, the best thing he could do was collect wood for a fire. It wasn’t so much for himself - Geralt was used to enduring the cold as if it was nothing - so much as it was for the bard. After all, a warm Jaskier may not have been a happy Jaskier right now, but it was a Jaskier who was less likely to catch a cold and die from asphyxiation due to his nose getting stuffed up.

He was pulled from his regret-ridden thoughts when he heard Roach leisurely clip-clop past him.

“You should be staying with Jaskier.” He told the horse in vain, acting in typical “Geralt-Of-Rivia-The-Hardened-And-Incredibly-Stoic-Witcher-Who-Has-One-Sided-Conversations-With-His-Horse” fashion.

Bewildered, he followed the horse for a few feet until he found that she was heading to a pond that was only about twenty more feet away. Geralt sighed at his forgetfulness; Roach must have been dehydrated after traveling so much that day.

“Hm. Well, you actually have a reason to be away from him. That makes one of us.”

Geralt sighed; he knew there was potential firewood that was closer to Jaskier - this was just a poor excuse to distance himself from the bard.

Shame crept up on the Witcher. How dare he leave Jaskier again, especially when he was in such a vulnerable state? If it weren’t for Geralt heading into that cave and leaving Jaskier alone (with the exception of Roach) despite his protests against the idea, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place. Jaskier would never have gotten kidnapped; he’d still be rambling a mile a minute and singing those beautiful songs! Damn, Geralt regretted how he never told Jaskier how beautiful his voice was; to say such a thing now would be like pouring salt on a wound.

“...I never should have left Jaskier.”

With this, he resolved that the best course of action would be to grab his stuff and head back to camp.

Of course, “camp” was just wherever Jaskier was huddled up, seeing as there were no sleeping mats or fires set up yet, but that was beside the point as the Witcher did a one-eighty and headed back to Jaskier, Roach trotting behind him.

Thankfully, there hadn’t been another Jaskier-napping, for the bard was right where he was when Geralt left, writing in his journal fervorously. The only change was that Jaskier seemed colder, as Geralt could see by his paling skin and quivering jaw. The Witcher winced as he imagined how that affected the stitches - whether it tugged at his lips incessantly or if the motion was small enough that he couldn’t feel it - before he announced his return.

Jaskier looked up and slammed his journal shut before Geralt could see what he was scribbling with his charcoal, but he didn’t think to ask the bard what it was; quite frankly, at this point, Geralt thought that if Jaskier wanted him to know what he was writing about, he’d show him. It wasn’t his place to pry - not after what happened.

The Witcher kept this in mind as he started to make fire. He set up the kindling a few feet away from the bard, and within minutes, there was a lovely little fire - adequate enough to keep Jaskier warm, as well as to provide a source of light so the bard could communicate through visuals, whether through gestures or through written word in his journal. Since the three (yes, including Roach) had stopped in a small clearing, it should have been safe enough to start the fire without worrying about the risk of setting the forest ablaze. However, since Geralt was not one to take chances, he still set a few rocks around the fire.

As far as positions went, the fire was positioned so it was ten feet South of Roach, who was positioned quaintly and comfortably between a few trees. It was also ten feet West of Jaskier’s position. So, from a bird’s eye view, the formation of the three made a sort of “L” shape - Roach at the top, the fire in the corner, and a silenced, shivering bard on the right.

Once Geralt was sure that the fire was of adequate strength to keep Jaskier warm, he took the two sleeping mats off of Roach and laid them both on opposite sides of the flame, each about three feet away from it.

The entire time the Witcher was going about this - from assembling the fire to laying down the mats - Jaskier never moved from that tree. Keeping his knees tucked to his chest, he continued writing… well… whatever he was writing. Something in Geralt’s gut told him to try to get the bard to show him, but he suppressed the feeling; after everything that happened, he owed the bard privacy.

Still, Geralt also knew that the bard needed rest, so he called him over.

“Jaskier.” Geralt called as he sat on his own sleeping mat.

Jaskier snapped his head up in alert, like a startled animal.

“I set up your sleeping mat for you. You should try to get some rest.”

The bard looked down at his journal, looked back to Geralt, and gave a little nod before he kept writing. The Witcher sighed; he hoped Jaskier didn’t ignore him so much as he just wanted to jot down one or two more things.

“The rain is already getting worse.” Geralt told Jaskier as he felt more and more raindrops fall into his hair. “You should come to your mat before it gets soaked.”

Jaskier nodded, and after just another moment, Geralt sighed in relief when Jaskier closed the book, wrapped his blanket around him like a little cloak, and came over to his mat.

As was to be expected, Jaskier laid down on one side with his back facing Geralt. The Witcher sighed again before he stood up, picked up his own blanket, and walked around the flame until he stood over Jaskier.

The bard held his journal close to his chest - not even allowing Geralt so much as a peek at it’s contents - and looked up at the Witcher with those fragile, ice blue eyes, and it nearly broke Geralt’s heart all over again.

He draped the second blanket over Jaskier.

The bard, now draped in two blankets, made a small, inquisitive noise as he looked up at Geralt, his expression going from wary to confused in just a few seconds.

“You need it more than I do, Jaskier.”

With that, the Witcher went back to his own mat and laid down on his back. He glanced at Jaskier, who still remained turned away from him as he pulled both blankets tighter around him. After a few moments had passed, Geralt decided that it felt strange for him to just stare at the bard’s back, so he opted to stare up at the sky instead.

As he blinked rain - or maybe tears - out of his heavy eyes, exhaustion caught up with the Witcher.

He was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Geralt had always been a heavy sleeper.

This was mostly due to the fact that more often than not, it was incredibly difficult for the Witcher to fall asleep in the first place. So, on the rare occasions that his body just gave in and granted him slumber without much difficulty, he held sleep in a vice grip - once he fell asleep, it was usually impossible to wake the slumbering Witcher until his body decided it was good and ready to wake up.

But that wasn’t the case tonight.

Geralt wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep for when he suddenly got a horrible feeling in his gut, and his mind started screaming for him to awaken.

_Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE-_

The Witcher awoke in a cold sweat, disoriented and confused.

As soon as he observed his surroundings, however, the confusion turned into panic.

Jaskier was gone again.

Geralt shot to his feet when he saw that the bard had disappeared, and a tidal wave of worst-case scenarios flooded his mind.

_What if he was kidnapped again? What if he kept trying to wake me as he was taken? What if he needed me, and I wasn’t there? Again?_

_What if he was dragged off by a wild animal, and he’s already been mauled, and he couldn’t even cry out?_

_What if he was sleepwalking? Wait, did Jaskier ever sleepwalk? This would be a very bad time to start doing-_

Geralt only stopped spiraling into panic when he noticed something peculiar.

Instead of being in a tangled pile, which would have been a very clear sign of struggle, both of Jaskier’s blankets had been folded neatly, with one being stacked atop the other. Because of this, Geralt realized that if Jaskier had been taken again, whoever did it would not have taken the time to fold his blankets. Therefore, it seemed like Jaskier’s disappearance was, for once, done on his own accord.

However, to say that this made Geralt any less worried was like saying that because one grain of sand was removed from a beach, there was less sand on the beach; technically, the statement was true, but there was such an infinitesimal amount of change that no real difference was made. Jaskier may not have been abducted or dragged off by an animal, but he was still unaccounted for, wandering somewhere in the woods, which - as if things weren’t difficult enough - had been covered in a thick fog. Also, he was probably soaking wet because of the rainfall, which only made the risk of catching a cold (and thus asphyxiating because of a stuffy nose) far worse than it already was, and if he were hurt, he’d have no way of crying out for help.

So, in conclusion, everything was still bad.

However, as he stared at the folded blankets for a few more seconds, something interesting caught the Witcher's eye: a piece of paper, peeking out from between the two blankets.

Geralt stepped around the campfire and carefully removed the paper. Upon closer inspection, he realized that it was the same kind of paper from Jaskier’s journal; this was probably what he had been writing earlier, but what was it? A note? What couldn’t Jaskier say to Geralt’s face, and what did it have to do with his disappearance?

The Witcher decided that the best way to answer such a question was to read the note, and that's exactly what he did.

_Geralt, I don’t hate you._

_Above all else, no matter how things were tonight, you need to know that._

_At first, I was angry at you, but now… I feel ashamed that I ever was. There was no way you could have known about the spell. Honestly, I should have been grateful that I mattered so much to you that you would kill for me. I never should have made you feel guilty for something that wasn’t your fault; you didn’t do that to me, and I never should have held what you did against you. I’m sorry._

_You don’t understand. You may be happy that I can’t speak anymore - hell, you’re probably ecstatic that I won’t be able to talk your ear off and agonize your ears with the sound of my singing - but I’m not. I’m fucking miserable like this. Arachnir took away something that meant everything to me, and as long as he’s dead, I’ll never get it back. I don’t say that out of animosity; it’s just a fact. I’m a bard who can’t sing; I have as much purpose as a fillingless pie. There’s something missing - something that made me feel whole. Now that it’s gone, there’s just… a hole._

_I feel so fucking dehumanized. I argued - that’s all I did, I argued - and because of that, Arachnir took away something that made me a fucking person. I should be able to speak, to smile, to sing, to open my mouth - as every bloody human being should be able to do - but I can’t anymore. Because I talked back to him. That’s all I did. He did this to me while he made damn sure I couldn’t even move, all because I TALKED BACK TO HIM._

_I’m… I’m so fucking broken, Geralt. That’s why you’re reading this._

_I’m not going to live like this._

_I… I'm not going to live some pitiful half-life, unable to smile, unable to speak, and unable to do the one thing I love more than anything else. Hell, I'm not sure if I'd even be able to keep myself alive, even if I wanted to. Eating, drinking - both of those would be the same thing. I'd have to try and shove a tube or something through the gaps in these fucking stitches just so I can eat, if I can even do that. What kind of life would that be? Definitely not one I’d like to live._

_I’m sorry I was so bitter towards you, Geralt. I’m not sure if I was even angry at you, or if I was just angry at… at… at everything. Angry at the fact that I couldn’t defend myself. Angry at the fact that Arachnir thought so little of you that he took me for ransom. Angry at the fact that he felt entitled to… to… to do this to me. Angry at how powerless I was to stop him - how he made me beg for mercy even though he never listened ONCE._

_But it’s not just anger that's pushing me to do this. It’s fear. It’s despair. It’s … hopelessness. I felt so hopeless when you told me he was dead, but I never should have taken it out on you. After everything you’ve done to try to help me tonight, even though I was so resentful… I’m sorry I ever held this against you, and I'm sorry I couldn’t say this to your face._

_More than anything, it’s pain. So much fucking pain. I’m not just talking about how much the stitches hurt - believe me, however, when I say I’ve never felt something more physically agonizing in my entire life - but it’s deeper than that. Knowing that I’ll never speak or sing again, knowing that I’ve been robbed of something so important to me as both a bard and a human being… it hurts too bad. That’s why I’m going to do this._

_I forgive you, Geralt._

Jaskier's signature sprawled along the bottom of the page, along with a drawing of a buttercup.

Geralt didn’t understand. At first, he thought that this note was Jaskier’s way of telling him that he was going to try and remove the stitches through brute force or something - thus mutilating his face in the process - and the reason that Jaskier left camp was so Geralt couldn't stop him. It made sense for a moment, considering all the times he wrote about how he wasn’t going to live this kind of life, and how being unable to speak or sing was too painful for him. There was nothing else that Jaskier could possibly mean…

_...Oh, god._

“I’m not going to live like this.”

_No…_

“I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to your face.”

_Please, no…_

“I don’t hate you. Above all… you need to know that.”

_No, no, no!_

"I'm not sure I'd be able to keep myself alive, even if I wanted to."

_No, no, for the love of -_

“That’s why I’m going to do this.”

_\- Fuck, for the love of anything that’s listening, no! No!_

“I forgive you, Geralt.”

_NO!_

Terror gutted the Witcher like a knife; pure fear held his heart in a vice grip.

This was a suicide note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reiterate the warning at the top of this chapter. If you're triggered by talking someone out of attempting suicide, next chapter may not be suitable for you. There will be no suicide/suicide attempts in this story.


	6. The Longest Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt must find Jaskier and stop him from doing something terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal ideation/talking someone out of suicide  
> Also, I understand Geralt is able to sense beings even when they're out of sight, but I've kind of modified that ability in this chapter for... well, frankly, whump reasons. Muahaha.

Geralt couldn’t breathe.

His heart hammered in his chest as the world blurred around him. To the Witcher, nothing existed in this moment besides himself and the note in his shaking hands; the note that very well may have contained the last words of the one person who meant absolutely everything to him. He couldn’t believe it; Jaskier had been writing his own suicide note right in fucking front of him, and Geralt had no clue.

Geralt hoped beyond hope that this was some twisted nightmare; that he'd wake up and see that Jaskier was right where he was when he fell asleep. Even if he kept his back turned toward the Witcher, even if he never looked at him again, he would have accepted it; Geralt would have given anything for this not to be real.

But it was.

Jaskier had disappeared into the woods, and he had no intention of leaving those woods alive. Oh, Melitele - what if he already went through with it? What if Jaskier - sweet, lovely, _beautiful_ Jaskier - was already gone forever? What if the buttercup had long since wilted? What if his body was already festering? Rotting? Left for scavengers?

No. He had to do something, and _fast_.

 _Fast_ , like the blood that may be running down his wrists? Or down his neck?

_No._

_Fast_ , like his legs giving out from under him as he jumped off a rock or something, letting the noose around his neck either choke him slowly or snap his neck instantly?

_No!_

_Fast_ , like the way he may have sunken to the bottom of a lake by now, his lungs filled with water, unable to cough it up, even if he wanted to back out?

_NO!_

He forced himself to stop spiraling. It was like a light switch (or whatever it’s 12th Century equivalent was) flipped in his head; the terror he felt didn’t vanish, but it was joined by resolve. He knew he couldn’t just sit there and be terrified for Jaskier; he had to find him - fucking hell, he’d search the entire woods if he had to - and stop him from doing something horrible.

Geralt had to stop Jaskier from killing the most important person in the Witcher’s life - himself.

He snapped his head up and saw a set of footprints that lead away from Jaskier’s mat, heading south from the campfire and deeper into the forest, which - as if things weren’t horrible enough - was consumed by fog that was much thicker than it had been when Geralt fell asleep. By looking at how harshly the grass was crushed in each track and how deep the indentations in the rain-soaked ground were, Geralt knew Jaskier took off running. If circumstances weren’t so dire, Geralt would have sighed - _He was already so weakened, why would he run?_ \- but he only shot up and started running, following the tracks as far as he could go.

Fortunately, he had already taken off his Witcher armor before he went to sleep, leaving on his trousers and black shirt, the sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He couldn’t remember when exactly he did so - for obvious reasons, routine things like removing his armor didn’t take up much room in his memory - but he did know that he was faster without it. And right now, when time was absolutely crucial, that was a good thing.

Unfortunately, his search went downhill very quickly.

The further he ran from the fire, the deeper he ran into darkness. As enhanced as his vision was, it was of little help. It was already but a step above pitch darkness outside - he didn’t even have the light of the moon, the storm clouds were so thick - and that, along with the fact that the fog was so thick that he wouldn’t have been able to see ten feet in front of him in broad daylight, rendered his enhanced eyesight useless. He could see the outline of trees in front of him, and he could see the milky grey of the fog that wove between them, but he couldn’t make out any more of Jaskier’s footprints.

_Fuck._

His hearing wasn’t of any help in finding Jaskier, either. Of course, he didn’t expect it to be his greatest asset in doing so - he couldn’t open his fucking mouth, so he obviously wouldn’t have answered if he heard Geralt call out to him - but he hoped it would pick up on something, like frantic, sprinting footsteps against dirt that was so rain-soaked that it almost mud, or Jaskier’s rapid breathing (if he was still breathing at all). As painful as it would have been, he would’ve gone so far as to accept hearing his whimpers or cries. _Anything_ that would’ve let the Witcher know that Jaskier was still a-fucking-live.

But the sound of the pouring rain drowned out (in the most literal sense of the phrase) nearly every other sound, the exception being the deafening thunder overhead.

_Fuck._

He couldn’t even smell Jaskier’s blood. He thought that maybe he would’ve smelled it because of the gashes in his mouth, or - Melitele forbid - because of some self-inflicted wound, but there was nothing. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was being covered up by the smell of petrichor, or if there was simply no spilled blood to smell. He hoped it was the latter, but even if Jaskier wasn’t bleeding, that didn’t guarantee that he was still alive - there were a plethora of bloodless ways to take one’s own life, and the Withcher knew this.

His senses had betrayed him. He could barely see anything in the fog-ridden darkness, he could barely hear anything but the falling rain and deafening thunder, and he couldn’t even smell anything besides the rain, the thousands of plants that surrounded him, and petrichor - fucking _petrichor._

Geralt’s resolve shattered, leaving only terror and panic. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked around frantically - hell, he didn't know he was even capable of feeling as panicked and terrified as he was.

_Where. The. Fuck. Is. Jaskier?_

He realized there was one more thing he could do - something he fucking hated doing.

He knew the pain that would come from it, but he didn’t care. Nothing could have been worse than this terror - than losing Jaskier. Nothing would be worse than another person he loved dying because of him.

Geralt knew he should have done this a long time ago, but he was scared. Scared of what? A headache? A fucking _headache_? Jaskier could be _dying_. Jaskier could be _DEAD_. 

The Witcher knew he couldn’t go back and make it so he utilized his ability to sense life around him back in the forest, when Jaskier was first abducted, nor could he reverse time and use it so he found Jaskier at that cabin sooner and... well... did anything other than kill Arachnir before he could make him undo the spell that made those stitches permanent.

But now wasn’t the time for regrets - it was time to give himself a headache and find that damn bard before there was no bard left to find.

He started trying to pick up on any forms of life that were within a hundred feet of him. He wished he could filter out the plants and trees - fucking hell, he already knew there were plants and trees - as their presence made his head throb.

It was actually rather mild, that pain - not much more than the soreness he got after he bumped his head against the top of a doorway once. Jaskier laughed right in his face after that, but it wasn’t Geralt’s fault that no one accommodated for tall, dark, brooding Witchers when they built doorways! He remembered snarling at Jaskier for that, but on the inside, he smiled when he heard him laugh.

Fucking hell, he already missed the bard’s laugh so much already.

Speaking of Jaskier, Geralt couldn’t sense him within those hundred feet. Damn.

He pushed himself further - he was picking up on all the life within two-hundred and fifty feet now. Naturally, the aching in his head worsened; now, it was like a constant ache that was strong enough to make the Witcher wince as he squeezed his eyes shut. The most precise way the he could describe it was by comparing it to an instance where he had just woken up from a bad night’s sleep - which he was no stranger to before, nor, after tonight, would he ever be again - only to deal with dull, ever-present aching behind his eyes that worsened as he heard Jaskier singing some new song, not having the nerve, despite his abrasive demeanor, to berate him for it. That was what this felt like, an ache derived from a perfect storm of sleep deprivation and too much noise from the bard.

Now, however, the problem lied in the fact that there wasn’t _enough_ noise from Jaskier, who _he still couldn’t fucking sense._ Dread pooled in his stomach as he rubbed his eyes. Either he was doing all this for nothing and Jaskier was already dead, or he had to put himself through more agony. And since he refused to accept the first option, he was forced to choose the latter.

_It’ll hurt -_

_I don’t fucking care. I won’t lose him._

_You’ve already -_

_No. I won’t lose him._

_He’s probably gone, just like Ren -_

_NO._

_Even if he’s alive, he’ll hate -_

_I. WON’T. FUCKING. LOSE. JASKIER._

Geralt broadened his senses as far as he could manage.

He knew he should have worked up to it, but there was no time. No time. No fucking time. In an instant, he could sense every form of life - every tree, every plant, every sleeping bunny or squirrel, every fucking blade of grass - within a mile.

And holy shit, it fucking _hurt_.

It hit the Witcher in an agonizing instant, sending him staggering to his knees. It wasn’t like a headache from hitting his head, or a bad night of sleep, or one of Jaskier’s nasty hangovers that he would complain about so often; it felt like his brain was trying to burst from his damn head. No, no, it was like a sculptor was trying to chisel a statue, but instead of chiseling marble, that sculptor was hammering a chisel into Geralt’s skull. He put his hands to the sides of his head - a futile attempt at quelling the pain - as he lurched forward so far that his elbows touched the wet dirt beneath him, hot tears streaming from his eyes as a wave of nausea hit him.

He couldn’t even hear his own guttural, agonized cry as his fingers clawed into his hair; as he did everything he could to block out the pain - he knew it was nothing compared to what Jaskier had gone through - he focused all of his remaining mental strength on finding him.

_It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts -_

_JASKIER I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE_

_Please it hurts my head make it stop -_

_JASKIER WHERE ARE YOU I’LL COME FIND YOU_

_I can’t take it it hurts so bad I feel sick it hurts make it stop make it stop make it -_

_JASKIER PLEASE YOU CAN’T BE GONE I NEED YOU_

For a few moments, he still couldn’t sense any human life. His heart skipped a few beats as numbness - no, _hopelessness_ \- washed over the pain and nausea. He couldn’t - he couldn’t _do_ more than this; he couldn’t even push his senses as far as he already had without having to fight the urge to vomit. This was all he could do - his last resort to save the man he loved - and it meant _nothing_ . He never felt so… so _powerless._

He knew he hadn’t slept long enough for Jaskier to run any further than a mile beyond their campsite. If Geralt couldn’t sense Jaskier at this point, then… then…

He sensed Jaskier.

_Oh, sweet Melitele, he sensed Jaskier._

The Witcher’s heart nearly leaped from his chest. The bard was half a mile away, and as much as Geralt would’ve taken more than a few seconds to be astounded by this - _fuck, how did he get so far so fast?_ \- he was too relieved to give a damn.

Jaskier was still alive, and Geralt knew exactly where he was.

Everything that wracked him only moments before - all the nausea and pain that assaulted his body and senses - seemed to vanish as he stood back up.

He narrowed his senses back down. Having already reserved what he knew about Jaskier’s location to memory, he had no need to keep his senses broadened, or strain to find some sort of signal to hang onto, or try to quell the pain.

Now, he only needed to run.

And that’s exactly what he did.

Geralt’s heartbeat pounded in his ears as he sprinted through the woods, barely even feeling his feet touch the ground. Though the foggy air was as still as still could be, he ran so fast that it felt like the wind was howling against him. Maybe the wind _had_ picked up - that would explain how the fog started to dissipate. Either way, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to Jaskier. This wasn’t going to be like back at the cave, when Arachnir fooled him and uprooted the dandelion; there were no obstacles - especially bullshit spider webs - that stood in his way. Even if they did, he’d obliterate them. As Geralt ran as fast as his legs could carry him, he wasn’t just doing it to save Jaskier; he was running for every time Jaskier needed him - every time he _screamed his fucking name_ \- and the Witcher didn’t come to him.

That’s what kept him going. His stamina was still nearly depleted by the sensory ordeal only minutes before, but that thought - the thought of finally coming to the bard when he needed him most - kept him from slowing down as he ran. As he ran and ran and ran and ran… 

...Until he finally saw him.

Jaskier was sitting up against a tree about ten feet away, his knees almost touching his chest as he looked up to the sky with wild, desperate eyes, that damn black thread in his lips proving to be a disturbing contrast to his pale face, his formerly well-kept chestnut hair now an unkempt, drenched, tousled mess, and - probably the most disturbing sight of all - both of his hands holding his dagger, cleansed of the blood that crusted on it before, in a white-knuckled grip as he pressed the tip against his throat. It wasn’t enough to draw blood - for this, Geralt thanked any and every deity he could - but the Witcher knew he wanted to change that.

“Jaskier.” he called softly, trying his best not to startle him. Getting startled, after all, meant flinching, and flinching with a blade against the jugular vein meant bleeding out.

Fortunately, Jaskier didn’t flinch.

Unfortunately, he also made no effort to put the knife down.

All he did was draw his gaze from the sky to the Witcher as his chest rose and fell rapidly.

Geralt tried to take a step closer.

Jaskier pressed the knife harder into his skin - not so much to hurt himself, as it still wasn’t enough to draw blood, but to tell the Witcher to keep his damn distance.

Geralt stepped back as he realized the challenge ahead of him. Not only was Jaskier a captive once again, but he was also his own captor. The Witcher couldn’t just lunge at him and try to rip the dagger out of his hands; doing so would risk the possibility of Jaskier stabbing himself before Geralt could take the weapon away. As he looked into the frantic lark’s eyes - wild, desperate, and terrified - he knew that he had to make him put the weapon down on his own. As much as it hurt to see, the fear in his eyes was almost a relief for Geralt; it meant that Jaskier was still scared, still hesitant to do what he claimed he would. It meant there was still reluctance; it meant there was still a chance to stop him.

It was in this moment that Geralt realized something else; he had never been more like a dandelion than he was right now.

When he thought about that, he didn't do it in the most typical sense. That is, he didn’t look at Jaskier in this state and imagine a lovely, bright yellow flower so much as he imagined a fully matured dandelion, yellow flower head now replaced by a sphere-ish congregation of seeds. This was the most fragile state a dandelion could be in, so it was indeed an apt way to describe Jaskier’s state; just like one strong gust of wind would blow all those seeds away, leaving whatever was left of the dandelion to wilt, one wrong word from Geralt could push Jaskier to drag that knife along his neck and end his lifelong performance for good.

In this moment, the Witcher realized that he had to pick his next words very, very carefully.

“Jaskier, please, don’t do this.” he begged, deciding to try out the most obvious approach first and simply ask him not to do this to himself. A very small, very delusional part of him hoped that maybe that would be enough - that the mere fact that Geralt didn’t want him to kill himself would cause Jaskier to back down.

But it wasn’t. Jaskier’s expression didn’t change, and he didn’t lift the knife by so much as a millimeter. Damn it.

Geralt had to try another approach. When someone believed their situation to be hopeless, he always thought it was the most logical thing to tell them what they had to hope for in the future:

_It will get better. This will pass. Better things are coming._

These were all things Geralt wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if he could without lying. Still, he tried to convince Jaskier of the things he could look forward to in the future.

But the Witcher couldn’t come up with anything truly enticing.

“You have a way with words, Jaskier. I’m sure there’s a way for you to continue to create your songs without your voice. There are also languages based on sign, Jaskier. You won’t have to rely on using your journal to-”

Jaskier whimpered and turned his gaze away from the Witcher, stretching his neck and drawing back the dagger -

_“NO!”_

\- Jaskier stopped himself, freezing up as the blade was only a hair away from his neck.

 _Fuck,_ Geralt thought, _I’m terrible at this._

The bard looked up at him again, blinking tears from his eyes - still wild, still desperate, still terrified. But there was one thing more prevalent than all those things - pain. Jaskier was in so, so much pain, and the Witcher would have rather put stitches in his own lips right this minute if it meant taking that agony away. But he couldn’t.

Geralt realized that just talking about possibilities of the future wasn’t enough; he needed to show Jaskier that there was still something _real_ in this world for him.

Well, it wasn’t _something_ , actually; all Geralt could offer was _someone_.

Someone who would protect him.

Someone who would search the whole Continent for someone who could undo this if Jaskier so wanted.

Someone who would be right at his side as he adjusted to this life, who would support him unwavering if that’s what he needed.

Someone who - as tears from his yellow eyes streamed down his face, nearly indistinguishable from the pouring rain that soaked his white hair - slowly knelt down to be eye level with Jaskier.

Indeed, he could only offer himself.

_“Jaskier…”_

As he thought of what to say, something dawned on him; he had never apologized. Ever since the cabin, everything he said to Jaskier about his own actions was in defence of them; making excuses like how he didn’t know about the spell, or how he only did it because of the anger he felt at Jaskier being hurt. Another pang of guilt went through his heart - another reason for what he was about to say.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

The buttercup’s expression started to soften, just by a fraction.

“You had every right to be upset at me before, and you still do now. I shouldn’t have been so impulsive, back at that cabin. I shouldn’t have been so foolish to leave you alone, back at the cave. You tried to tell me it was a bad idea, but I didn’t listen, and I… I shouldn’t have been so abrasive back there, when we stopped for the night. There’s a lot of things I should have done that I didn’t, and a lot of things I shouldn’t have done that I did, but…”

Geralt sighed.

“I promise you, I’ll be better.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed, reluctance and skepticism clear in his expression.

 _Fair enough._ Geralt thought with a sigh as he rephrased his words.

“I promise you, I’ll try.”

Yes. He could promise that. It was probably one of the only things he could promise Jaskier with the confidence that such a promise wouldn’t end up broken.

Jaskier’s expression softened even further. Yes. Good. That meant the Witcher was getting through to him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come when you called before. I… I tried, back at the cave, and when it happened at that cabin, I was… I was already on my way. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you in time. I would gladly have endured what you had, if it meant this never happened to you. I… there’s no way to be absolutely certain that there isn’t someone out there who can fix this. I… I would search the entire Continent, if you wanted, but if you wanted me to stay by your side, I would do that too.”

Jaskier started to relax. The Witcher was almost relieved at the sight, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be so until that knife was away from his neck.

“Jaskier, I can and will be anyone you need me to be.” Geralt vowed. “Whatever you need, I’ll do whatever I must to make it happen. Just… please, _please_ don’t do this.”

The Witcher and bard weren’t sure how long they stayed there like that, desperate yellow eyes gazing into desperate blue ones. For a moment - an insufferably long moment - Geralt just knelt there, watching the bard and silently pleading.

Jaskier closed his eyes, took a deep breath…

_No, no, no, no, no, NO -_

… And lowered the dagger.

Geralt let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, relief washing over him as the bard sheathed his weapon. The bard stared up to the sky as he took more deep breaths. Yes. Good. That’s all he wanted; for Jaskier to keep breathing.

Slowly, as he leaned against the tree for support, the shivering songbird started to push himself back on his feet. Geralt stood up as well, for now he knew that it was safe enough to approach.

However, Jaskier was actually the first of the two to try and approach the other person.

First, he took shaky steps.

Then, he took _very_ shaky steps.

Finally, he stumbled right into Geralt, who already had his arms open as the bard fell against his chest. The Witcher held himself upright with ease as Jaskier wrapped his arms around him, and despite how hesitant he was, Geralt did the same. He wrapped one arm around the bard’s waist - holding his body close with a firm grip so he wouldn’t fall to the ground - while he used his other hand to run his fingers through his hair as he buried his head in Geralt’s chest, those chestnut locks still soft (so, so soft) despite the rain.

Jaskier started crying.

Tremulous sobs wracked his body as Geralt felt the bard’s shoulders shake against him, taking sharp, deep breaths through his nose as his chest rose and fell rapidly. He wailed through the stitches - an absolutely heart-shattering sound of raw anguish - and it took everything Geralt had in him not to break down and cry, too. Jaskier just sounded so weak, so fragile, so… so _human._ The Witcher couldn’t break down - he _had_ to be strong enough for the both of them - so he just started whispering soothing reassurances.

_“I’m here, Jask… I’m not going anywhere, buttercup… I’m right here…”_

Geralt knew that calling Jaskier those nicknames to his face was quite out of character, but he didn’t care. He’d gladly abandon his cold demeanor for as long as Jaskier needed, and this is what he remembered as he planted a kiss atop his head. Geralt knew this was even more out of character than the nicknames, but he didn’t care. Jaskier didn't seem to mind it very much either, for he made no effort to respond and only continued to cry.

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, the rest of the world temporarily fading into irrelevance as they held each other close. Geralt continued to comfort Jaskier as his muffled wails died into sobs, all the while hoping that all the crying wouldn’t make it hard for him to breathe through his nose. Thankfully, as his sobs eventually turned into deep, shaky breaths - with a few occasional sniffles, naturally - this never became the case.

“Hmm…” Geralt spoke up as he looked down at Jaskier, “We should get back to camp. You need to rest. It wont be good to stay up this long, especially in this weather.”

Jaskier pulled away a bit, looking down at his legs before looking back up to Geralt with an unsure expression. Geralt knew exactly what he meant; he didn’t think he could walk anymore.

But that was okay.

Ever so gently, as if he was a delicate, injured canary, Geralt bent down and lifted Jaskier like a bride, one arm under his back and the other hooked under his legs.

Jaskier’s expression went from a worried one to a confused and surprised one - his eyebrows going from upturned to raised - but the Witcher made quick work of that.

“Don’t worry, dandelion. I’ll carry you.” he softly reassured the bard, “Please, just try to rest. Your night has been long enough.”

Jaskier stared at the Witcher for a moment before heeding his suggestion, nestling his head into Geralt's collarbone as he gently hooked one arm around the Witcher’s neck.

He looked into Jaskier’s heavy, bloodshot, half-open eyes - completely vacant of all those horrible things he saw in them before: fear, despair, and wildness - and, though he thought he would never admit it, he smiled fondly at the bard as his eyes fluttered shut.

With that, Geralt walked back to camp with Jaskier in his arms. After what must have been an hour of walking, he finally found their camp again. Roach was exactly where he left he left her, and this was a relief.

“Found him.” Geralt said in a low voice, nodding down to the sleeping lark in his arms.

He didn’t know why he said this, as she was apparently asleep as well. Apparently, she was completely unaware of the ordeal the two of them had gone through. That was okay; it was probably better that Geralt searched for Jaskier alone, as her presence very well could have startled him into hurting himself.

Roach was doing an adequate job just by being Roach.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed quietly as he approached the fire.

“...Hmm?” Jaskier hummed as he stirred, sleepy, disoriented eyes fluttering open. Damn, Geralt didn’t mean to wake him; he had hoped he could just keep sleeping until morning - Melitele knew he needed it - but, apparently, that wasn't going to happen.

“We’re back at camp, Jaskier.” Geralt told him. Jaskier nodded. Walking over to the bard’s sleeping mat, the Witcher found that it was, thankfully, still dry in spite of the rain. Slowly, he knelt down and set Jaskier down on the mat. 

The lark pushed himself up, using his arms to keep himself upright, and looked to his left. Geralt didn’t know what he was looking at, so he followed his gaze with his own eyes until he saw the crumpled paper that lay in the grass a mere two feet away - that damn note.

Shakily, Jaskier reached out and grabbed it, holding the paper close to his chest as he looked down at it with heavy eyes. Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed as droplets of dread splashed against him like the rain. He feared that Jaskier would reread it and begin to have those thoughts again…

...But the bard tossed it in the fire.

As the suicide note shriveled and blackened in the flames, there was something finalizing about how it burnt to the point of unrecognizable ashes - something that made Geralt feel relieved once again as he unfolded one of the blankets, still stacked at the head of the sleeping mat, and draped it over Jaskier. The bard laid down on his back before adjusting so he was on his side, his back to the fire and his head resting on the other blanket, still folded up and, apparently, working as a makeshift pillow.

“Those blankets were fairly close to the fire, so they’re plenty warm.” Geralt assured him as he stood up, ready to head over to his own mat…

… Until he saw Jaskier pat the space next to him, staring up at the Witcher longingly. Geralt almost didn’t understand what he meant, but then, when he _did_ realize what Jaskier wanted, he understood it even less.

“You… you want me to lay with you?”

Jaskier nodded, his eyes and the bridge of his nose peeking out from beyond the blanket. He brought one hand out from under the cover to point at Geralt, and then pointed to the fire.

 _What?_ Geralt wondered as he glanced between the two with furrowed eyebrows. _Does he want me to do something to the fire? Is he saying he wants me to lay with him because of the fire?_

 _...Oh, he’s saying I’m like the fire. I’m warm._ Geralt realized that Jaskier wanted him close to help keep him warm tonight.

_Or… or maybe I’m hot -_

_No, you idiot. He just doesn’t want to freeze._

Little did he know that if Jaskier had the energy to pull out his journal, he would have written down both that he was warm _and_ that he was hot. Jaskier wouldn't have missed the opportunity to flirt, and Geralt, despite how flustered it would have made him, would have been glad to know that,

As it was, the White Wolf couldn’t refuse his dandelion this request.

“Alright.”

There wasn’t a lot of space left on the mat, but that didn’t stop Geralt from getting down to the ground, laying on his side, and facing Jaskier, who held the blanket up with one hand as if to tell Geralt that it was okay - encouraged, even, to get under the blanket.

As unusual as this whole… well, _closeness_ (he would sooner fight a thousand _real_ giant spiders than ever admit that he was cuddling) thing was, he pulled the covers over the both of them and put one arm around Jaskier, watching him with soft eyes as the bard’s own eyes fluttered shut. They wouldn’t open until morning, much to Geralt’s relief.

He knew the bard wasn’t the same as he was when the day started - rambling on and on without a care, making off-hand remarks about how sexy Geralt’s legs were (he was no idiot; he knew whose legs he was really talking about back there), the only pain he endured coming from a rock in his shoe. No, something changed in the bard.

But something changed inside Geralt, too.

The reason he was always so abrasive was because he thought that pushing Jaskier away would keep him safe, but now, as the Witcher watched Jaskier's chest rise and fall, tears still crusted on his eyelids as that thread in his lips - gods, that _fucking_ thead - showed no signs of coming loose anytime soon, Geralt realized that this was as far from the case as night was from day. What Jaskier needed was not abrasiveness as a way to try and protect him from the unknown, but gentility and tenderness to not only protect him in the future, but to help him recover after what he had gone through.

But the future was irrelevant at the moment.

Figuring out how Jaskier could eat and drink like this, helping him learn how to communicate without needing a pen and paper to do so, somehow finding someone that could undo this - those were all things that could wait until tomorrow.

Right now, the most important thing was right in front of him, eyes shut in deep slumber as he nuzzled unconsciously into the Witcher’s chest.

Jaskier was _safe._

No matter what stood in his way - no matter what Destiny decided to throw at the two of them - Geralt would do everything he could to keep him that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? An ending to a chapter of this fanfic that isn't an upsetting/emotional/heartbreaking cliffhanger? WHO AM I, AND WHAT HAVE I DONE WITH THE AUTHOR?  
> Lol, hopefully this will be the last Extremely Emotional Chapter for a while, buuut... We'll see what happens as the story continues! :)


	7. Burdens and Broken Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to figure out how Jaskier will eat and drink in his current predicament, while - in addition to dehydration and hunger - Jaskier feels the deep discomfort of insecurity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> One of the things that is stressed in this chapter is that Jaskier has gone a while without eating or drinking, and is currently starting to feel the negative effects of these things. If that might trigger you, this chapter may not be suitable for you.

As Jaskier woke up and blinked in the sunlight - it had finally stopped raining during the night, thank Melitele - he was disoriented beyond belief. Upon the sight of Geralt sleeping only inches away from him, his arm draped over the bard protectively, he was still so exhausted that he thought he may have been dreaming. This came as no surprise for two reasons - one being that he was still so tired, despite his slumber, that he honestly wasn’t sure if he was awake, and the other being that even if he were wide awake, how could he _not_ think that he was somehow still asleep? Geralt of Rivia, the _Witcher_ , the Bu - no, he hated that name - the White Wolf, one of the most un-cuddling people he ever met, was sleeping almost right up against him.

But then he ran his tongue along the front of his mouth and felt the thread that stitched his lips shut. He put two fingers to his lips and felt the thread on the outside, and panic started to bubble up from his stomach. However, as instantly as his recognition of the stitches set in, he remembered the events of the day before.

_Right, right. Geralt got sent on some wild goose chase. Then, I got kidnapped and mouthed off to that spider-cock… and… and…_

His stomach turned as he remembered what Arachnir did to him; if there was one memory he wished he could have forgotten in his sleep, perhaps written off as some nightmarish hallucination, it would have been that one - the memory of his torture. Of that webbing against his body, keeping him trapped - _so fucking trapped_. Of that needle in his skin, pulling something through his lips that never should have fucking been there - something that was made from that disgusting motherfucker himself. Of tears streaming down his cheeks as blood dripped down his chin.

Fuck, why couldn’t that just be a nightmare?

He remembered everything after that a moment later. He remembered that Arachnir was dead - Geralt, unaware of the permanence spell he put on the thread, killed him. When he found out, he… he…

That night was a blur. A frenzied, terrified blur. The more he remembered of it, the more he didn’t want to.

He wanted to forget running from camp, despite his lightheadedness, and deep into the woods where he intended to kill himself.

He wanted to forget nearly collapsing against that tree and just sitting there, holding that dagger up to his neck for what felt like an hour (because it was) but not having the nerve to just drag it across his damn throat.

He wanted to forget trying to decide between killing himself quickly and easily, but leaving Geralt to eventually find out he was dead, or giving up and continuing to live miserably, not to mention going back to camp knowing that Geralt must have been worried near death.

He wanted to forget hearing Geralt cry out in anguish from half a mile away, knowing he was hurting but having no energy to get up. Somehow, he knew that the only reason he was in pain was because he was searching for Jaskier. Damn, that guilt ate away at him and he just wanted to forget knowing that he ever put the Witcher through that, however inadvertently.

The only thing he didn’t want to forget was Geralt’s tenderness; how he talked him down from attempting, how he made him feel like there was a reason to endure all of this, how he held him close, how he carried him back to their camp, how he stayed with him the entire night, how he was so kind to him…

He liked it, even though he almost felt like he didn’t deserve it - not after treating the Witcher coldly for something he had no idea about, for worrying him so much, for making him do all those things like running through the woods to find him, putting himself through such horrible pain just to know where he was, carrying him all the way back to camp, and then staying cuddled up next to him the whole night, even though Geralt wasn’t very fond of it?

The last thing he wanted to be was a burden.

After recollecting the memories of last night, he realized how bad he still felt - not emotionally, but in a physical sense. It was now that Jaskier realized that he hadn’t eaten or drank anything since before he was kidnapped. Combining that with how much he cried yesterday, and how far he ran from camp when he intended to off himself… fuck, he was incredibly dehydrated, not to mention hungry.

He cursed internally - it was the only way he could curse, at the moment - when he thought about that. It would do no good to recognize how much he needed food or water right now. Not when those things were so hard to have because… well, for obvious reasons.

Well, he figured that now was as good a time as any to wake Geralt.

He started to reach out to nudge Geralt awake, but he hesitated. After worrying and terrifying the Witcher for most of the night, he figured should have let him sleep as long as he needed, so he pulled his hand back.

Something started to rise up from his lungs, and his throat started to expand on its own.

Fuck. It was a fucking yawn.

Jaskier grit his teeth as he tried his damn hardest to keep his jaw clamped shut, but his body continued to try to force him into opening his mouth. Despite how much his mind begged for his mouth to stop trying to open - every tug at the stitches, no matter how slight, was so painful that it was nauseating - his body wouldn’t listen. He tried so hard that his jaw shook, yet it still tried opening up.

Was the rest of his body not aware of the thread that was pulled through his flesh? Did it not know that opening his mouth to do something as trivial as yawning would end up shredding his lips?

His jaw eventually relaxed, but not without a pained whimper as the thread tugged just a bit at the piercings it was embedded in - not enough to tear the skin or cause any bleeding, but enough to fucking hurt.

And, as he heard a low hum only inches away from him, enough to wake Geralt.

Jaskier berated himself silently - again, that was the only way he _could_ berate himself at the moment - and hoped the Witcher would only stir for a moment until going back to sleep, but as his eyes fluttered open, that wasn’t the case. 

In all honesty, Geralt stopped being a heavy sleeper the instant after he woke up from that bout of heavy sleep to see Jaskier’s suicide note. That was the last time he ever truly slept heavily, so it was no surprise that a simple whimper from the buttercup (it still felt wrong to say he was _his_ buttercup) next to him was enough to wake him up.

Waking up to hear Jaskier’s pained whimpers immediately exiled any grogginess that would have latched onto him during any other morning. Once his vision came into focus, the first thing he saw was the bard clearly straining to keep his jaw closed, lips pursed behind the thread that drew up and down his lips like the bars of a cage as his eyes squeezed shut.

“Jaskier…” He propped himself up on his elbow, calm but still so sleepily hoarse.

As the bard relaxed again, his eyes opened; Geralt knew that if it weren’t for dehydration, he’d probably be crying. In the few moments he had been awake, Geralt already pieced together what had happened.

“Was it a yawn?”

Jaskier nodded. The Witcher’s gaze softened into one of sympathy; to know that the lyricless lark had gone through that much pain because of something like a yawn…

If there was someone out there who could undo the unbreakability spell that Aracnir used to enchant that thread - and there was, for Geralt couldn’t afford to doubt that - finding them couldn’t happen soon enough. If someone who could reverse this curse appeared before them this instant, poofing up in a cloud of smoke, it still wouldn’t be soon enough.

For now, however, there was an entirely different challenge for the two of them; finding out how the hell Jaskier would eat or drink like this.

Geralt sat up, and Jaskier followed suit.

Well, he tried his best to do so, at least. Bless him.

The bard pushed himself up so he was sitting upright, but this only caused him to feel lightheaded and lurch forward. Despite how it felt like his head was underwater for a few seconds, he could still feel Geralt steady him by putting one hand against his back and the other against his chest.

The warmth and tenderness he felt at Geralt’s touch would have been nice, had it not been for the fact that he felt so guilty about it. He already ended up waking Geralt by whimpering - even after making him stay so close to him all night - and now he was making the Witcher feel like he had to keep holding him. It wasn’t as if he himself didn’t want to be held by Geralt - in a perfect world, he’d never stop holding him - but Jaskier knew (or, at least, he thought he knew) how uncomfortable all of this must have been for him.

Still, when he thought of the word “uncomfortable” - that was all he could do with the word, just think about it - what came to mind was the throbbing in his head, the thirst in his dry throat, and the emptiness in his stomach.

“You haven’t eaten or drank anything since yesterday morning, Jaskier.” Geralt told him as if he was reading his mind. It was true, though; nothing had gone down his throat but his own saliva and blood since before they even started looking for the “spider” that the Witcher was contracted to kill. (Well, to be precise, his blood didn't go down his throat until after the stitches, but that wasn't the point.)

But eating and drinking like this… it was one of the things that he dreaded the most about this situation. It was one of those things he mentioned in that godforsaken suicide note, and although he didn’t end up attempting, that didn’t mean he started looking forward to this new problem.

“Hmm…” Geralt hummed - for Melitele’s sake, he should have just patented humming at this point, since it was practically synonymous with the Witcher - as Jaskier looked at the ground, trying to figure out what to do next.

A few seconds passed after Geralt’s hum when the Witcher slowly started to reach towards Jaskier’s chin.

_No no no NO NO DON’T TOUCH IT DON’T TOUCH IT-_

He recoiled from the touch as much as his strength - dwindling as it was - would allow.

Geralt berated himself internally; he should have asked Jaskier if it was alright to touch his face, or at least told him why he wanted to do it.

“It’s alright. I won’t touch the stitches.” he assured the bard, his voice as gentle as he could make it, “I just want to see.”

As reluctant and timid as Jaskier was, his trust in Geralt outweighed all of that, so he relaxed and let him gently hold his chin between his thumb and index finger. Ever so slowly, ever so _tenderly_ \- Melitele, using that word to describe anything Geralt did was still so bizarre, albeit pleasantly so - the Witcher turned Jaskier’s head to the left so he could see his face better. Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed as he tilted his head, letting a few strands of white hair fall against his face as he looked at the stitches - not in horror or disgust, but it was like he was trying to inspect them.

Don’t be fooled; Geralt was still horrified and disgusted, but that wasn’t the point. He shoved those feelings aside as he looked at the stitches. In all, there were five stitches that went up and down his lips. Thankfully, they were simply vertical, rather than “x”s; even more thankfully, they seemed to be just loose enough that a tube could be weaved between the gaps to allow Jaskier to drink liquids. It wouldn’t be a pretty process in any sense of the word, but it was better than the stitches being so tight that absolutely nothing could pass through.

“It looks like,” Geralt told Jaskier about what he saw, “The stitches are just loose enough that you can put a straw or something like that through them. There’s probably some at the nearest marketplace, or something.”

The existence of straws may sound confusing, and such is reasonable for a 12th century tale. However, in a world where wizards weren’t only people of fiction, but real human beings - and incredibly unlikeable, in some cases - and children were taken in and mutated into incredibly strong and versatile monster hunters by way of alchemy, it’s probably safe to assume that some profound, scholarly mind in the Continent has made such a convenient tool that would help someone drink in the event that they, for whatever reason, couldn’t drink by conventional means.

In other words… wizards and Witchers exist, for Melitele’s sake. Someone has definitely invented and normalized the fucking drinking straw.

“Well, I should have enough to buy something like that, along with a pot… or something. We would need one for soups and broths - things like that.” Geralt was still flustered by the situation, clearly, though all the “somethings” and “like-thats” he sprinkled into his speech. He liked to have a direct, clear use for every word he spoke, so unintentional vagueness was definitely out of the ordinary. Still, a lot of things were out of the ordinary about this, and that wasn’t what Jaskier was thinking about.

He was thinking about how much of a burden this must have been for Geralt.

Because of what happened to him - because he wouldn’t just keep his mouth shut, and now he couldn’t fucking open it - Geralt had to go to all the way to a marketplace and look for something that might not even be there, and if it were, he’d have to spend his coin on a bunch of new supplies just to accommodate for him, not to mention cook different meals just so Jaskier could eat.

He felt like such a fucking _burden_.

Geralt noticed how Jaskier stopped looking at him, his eyes cast downward as if he was thinking about something. Unfortunately, mind reading was not a part of the plethora of abilities that came with being what he was - if Geralt could read minds, then many, many things about this predicament would have been prevented - so all he could do was try to get Jaskier to tell him on his own.

“Hmm… you look like you’re thinking about something.” Geralt said to him, for he didn’t want to pry by asking Jaskier what he was thinking about. If Jaskier wanted to tell him what he was thinking about, he would. If he didn’t, that was fine, too. As long as the bard wasn’t going to endanger himself, Geralt was fine with this.

Jaskier nodded. See, that was the thing about losing the ability to talk; he thought more. That wasn’t to say that before the stitches, he never thought before he spoke - of course, there were some instances where he could have thought about what he was about to say just a _touch_ more before he opened up his mouth - but now, when he had to take the time to write down what he wanted to say, he found that he chose his words more carefully.

This was also true in a much broader sense. While he traveled with his Witcher, he would usually pass the time by blathering about trivial things to Geralt or singing the lyrics of his works-in-progress to see if they sounded any good.

(The Witcher rarely did anything but hum in response, yet another thing the Witcher could go back and change if he could.)

But in the past twelve hours, more than anything else, he just… thought. He thought about what to do from now on. About how much he wished he would’ve just shut up back at the cabin and waited for Geralt, instead of antagonizing his captor when he was powerless to stop any retaliation. About how much he already missed the sound of his own voice. About how he felt like such a burden, and how he was the cause of so much worry and frustration and inconvenience.

More than anything, he thought about Geralt, and how kind he was towards him during all of this. This was who people would curse at and spit on as he helped them - as he _saved_ them from monsters they were helpless against? This was who people called a monster? A _butcher_?

Jaskier nodded at Geralt’s comment and brought out his journal. He curled his knees up so he had a good surface to write on. As he faced Geralt, his back to the smoldering embers of their fire from the night before, he started to write something down.

Geralt watched the bard as he wrote. If he wanted, he could have leaned in closer and seen what the bard was writing, but he didn’t. Whatever Jasker was writing, it was clearly something that he wanted to convey as precisely as he could. It felt like it would be intrusive to try to read what Jaskier was writing before he was ready to show him, so he waited.

As Jaskier wrote, he compulsively tried to stick his tongue out, as he usually did when he was writing song lyrics or concentrating on something in general. He couldn't do that right now, obviously, so he instead ran his tongue along the stitches like a child usually runs their tongue over their gums after they lose a tooth. He wasn’t used to the feeling of the spider’s thread against his tongue, and he hoped beyond hope that he would never have to get used to it.

When he was finally satisfied with the writing on the paper, and he felt like it perfectly conveyed what he wanted to ask of the Witcher, he turned the book around and showed Geralt.

_I think we should try to get the stitches out._

_I know that Arachnir performed an incantation to make this thread unbreakable, but for all we know, the spell may have been broken after he died. I’m not trying to get my hopes up for anything, but I do think it’s worth a try. I can even try to cut it myself, if you’d like. If I could just cut one of the stitches, then that would prove the spell was broken, and we could find a healer who can remove the rest of them. I know it’s strange to ask about this right now. I should have tried to cut it with my dagger before, and now, I kind of feel foolish for not doing that. Still, I’d rather try now so, in the event that the thread can be cut after all, you don’t end up wasting your money on straws and pots at a market._

As Jaskier studied Geralt’s expression, he saw that after he read the first sentence, he was taken aback; he could tell by the slight furrow in the Witcher’s brow and the way he pulled his head back by just a hair. However, as he kept reading, Geralt clearly started to see the sense in Jaskier’s reasoning; he nodded slowly with a hum of consideration, his brow relaxing as he continued to read. When he was done reading the page, Geralt shifted his gaze from the journal to the bard that was holding it.

“It wouldn’t be a waste of money to get the things that you need,” Geralt assured as he tilted his head to the side, “But you’re right. It’s worth a shot.”

Jaskier reached for his dagger, but Geralt stopped him by taking hold of his hand.

“Jaskier, no.”

He stopped in a heartbeat, enraptured by the fact that Geralt was holding his hand.

 _Geralt_ of _Rivia_ was _holding_ his _hand_.

Despite the severity of this predicament, there was still a part of him that was left in awe at Geralt’s gestures (even now, he was still reeling in the fact that the Witcher spent the entire night snuggled up next to him). Jaskier looked up from his hip to see a blushing Witcher - he had always been told that Witchers couldn’t blush, but the sight before him was kind of adorable, so he was happy to be wrong about that - who proceeded to clear his throat.

“Just wait here.”

He let go of Jaskier’s hand and got up, walking over to a newly-awakened Roach. The horse shook her head a little and huffed, earning a pet from Geralt as he started to search her saddle bag. Jaskier felt a smile tug at his lips (of obvious reasons, he suppressed it) as he could hear Geralt mumble to the equestrian.

“Yeah, he’s doing better… yeah, I know I was an ass last night. That’s over now… you missed a lot last night, Roach…”

Well, there was at least one thing that stayed the same: Geralt still loved talking to Roach.

The bard sat by himself for a moment, his legs crossed as he held his journal in his lap and tried to take his mind off the thirst in his throat and the emptiness in his stomach. One of the ways he did this was by looking at Geralt, the Witcher’s back turned to him as he searched in Roach’s saddlebag for something. He found himself looking at his white hair as it so beautifully reflected the morning sun, and his shirt as it neither draped loosely over him nor clung to his skin - just covering him while giving him a beautiful, yet strong and powerful silhouette - and… 

… his butt. He looked at his butt.

Jaskier was astounded with himself, honestly. Despite his predicament, despite how terrible things were for him right now, he was still so unreasonably in love with his Witcher. Despite his bitterness against him the night before - a result of losing the something he loved more than anything else, and never being able to even eat or drink the same way again - he never, even for one second, stopped loving him. 

That’s why he hated being such a burden for him now, bringing his White Wolf nothing but worry and inconvenience ever since he was abducted. He just wished he could be more useful, or, at the very least, not be the reason that Geralt had to do all of these extra things.

It was at this moment Jaskier actually remembered something interesting about the Witcher.

As everyone and their horse knew, Geralt wasn’t one to talk much (except to Roach) - at least, not much more than what was required of him by societal convention. He spoke when he needed to get a point across - always preferring “blessed silence” (although his attitude about Jaskier’s silence had inverted ever since yesterday afternoon) - and he didn’t take very well to casual conversation or small talk.

If what Jaskier theorized earlier - about how when someone talked less, they usually spent a lot of time thinking - was correct, then there must have been a lot that Geralt thought about; a lot that he kept to himself. At least, that’s what Jaskier concluded. He wished that would change in the future, but for now, he put that aside as Geralt returned.

The Witcher knelt down in front of him and held up a blade; it couldn’t have been any bigger than a scalpel. Maybe this was something he had reserved for very tiny monsters, or it was simply useful to have a smaller blade in some instances when one is traveling. Didn’t really matter much.

“You shouldn’t count on this working.”

Jaskier nodded.

“If the thread starts pulling through the skin before I can cut through it, I’m going to stop. I won’t risk ripping through the piercings.”

Jaskier nodded.

“If the thread does cut, I’m taking you to a healer immediately. They’d be better at pulling out the thread than I.”

Jaskier nodded.

“...Are you sure you trust me with this?”

Jaskier brought up his hands, reached out to grip the Witcher’s shoulders, and… nodded.

“Right, then.”

Jaskier placed his hands in his lap as Geralt gently gripped his chin in one hand, using the other to bring the blade right up against the thread. He instinctively shut one eye when the blade was only a few hairs away from the stitch that was furthest to the right side of his mouth, but besides that, he was completely relaxed. Whether this worked or not, he trusted his Witcher wholeheartedly.

Still, that didn’t mean Jaskier wasn’t surprised when the blade broke in half.

Well, he wasn’t actually surprised _by_ the blade ending up in two pieces - he honestly didn’t believe this would work - but more so by _how_ it happened. In fact, “broke” didn’t seem to be the right word for it. If one could visualize a hot knife slicing a stick of butter, then they would have a fairly decent visualization of what happened to the blade; the thread was the hot knife, and the blade (oddly enough) was the butter.

Geralt pulled his hand away, holding in front of him the large piece of the blade that was still in his hand, his eyebrows furrowed as his eyes widened. Jaskier mirrored that expression as he carefully put two fingers between a gap in the stitches and pulled out the little piece of the blade that was stuck behind the thread.

They both looked at their own respective pieces of the blade.

They both blinked a few times.

They both looked at one another.

“Hm… guess the spell didn’t break.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“It didn’t cut your mouth, did it?”

Jaskier shook his head.

“You didn’t get your hopes up, did you?”

Jaskier thought for a moment, let out a deep breath through his nose, and shook his head.

Truly, he wasn’t lying. He didn’t honestly think it would work; he just… well, he just thought it would have been nice if it did. He knew better than to honestly believe in the idea that the spell would have been broken just because Arachnir died. It definitely wouldn’t have been that easy.

He just would have loved to be proven wrong. That’s all.

“Here,” Geralt held out his hand, “Hand over the shard.”

Jaskier did what he was told. The Witcher took both pieces in one hand, used the other to dig a small hole, and put the pieces in the hole before burying it.

Damn it, he was the reason that something that belonged to Geralt was _broken._

 _Almost as broken as a bard who can’t sing._ Jaskier thought.

He just felt stupid. Why, he asked himself, did he think that was even worth trying? Why didn’t he try that before, with his own dagger? Why waste the effort and end up causing one of Geralt’s possessions to end up in two?

Why was he such a fucking _BURDEN_?

Geralt saw how Jaskier eyed the blade pieces as he buried it, and even though he said he didn’t get his hopes up - well, more specifically, he nodded when Geralt asked him about it - his eyes still looked heavy with something; the only problem was that he wasn’t sure what.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work, Jask.”

 _No._ Jaskier thought. _No, no, NO!_

Why was _Geralt_ apologizing? How could Jaskier make him feel bad for the spell not being broken, to the point where _he_ apologized after one of his own tools got broken? How _dare_ Jaskier be that selfish? Geralt had done so much for him already, so Jaskier thought that the least he could fucking do in return was not be so pathetic.

He shrugged and shook his head, nonverbally telling Geralt not to worry about it. The Witcher wasn’t entirely convinced that his failed attempt at cutting the thread didn’t leave the bard saddened, but if Jaskier didn’t want to elaborate, then the Witcher would respect that and decide against prying.

“Well, we should get going to the market.”

Geralt stood up and helped Jaskier to his feet. Much to Jaskier's own surprise, he could actually stay upright, despite the initial dizziness of standing up. Fortunately, he was able to keep up with Geralt with ease as they headed over to Roach.

“Hmm… with both of us on her back, she’ll probably get tired quickly.”

No. Nope. Nopity-nope-nope with a side of “No, thank you.” He already felt like a burden in the sense that he was causing so much trouble and inconvenience for Geralt. Now, as if that weren’t enough, he was supposed to be a burden in a _physical_ sense, as well? To cause Roach discomfort, exhaustion, or possible pain by carrying him? How could he _do_ that?

Ignoring every part of his starved, dehydrated body that told him it was a horrible idea to keep expending what little energy he had due to lack of food and water, he pointed to himself and used his index and middle finger to make a gesture of a person walking.

Geralt was vexed by what Jaskier was telling him.

“You want to walk?”

Jaskier nodded, but that didn’t do much to lessen the Witcher’s reluctance.

“Jaskier, you’ve gone without food or water since yesterday. Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Jaskier nodded again, this time waving a hand in front of him as if to dismiss Geralt’s concern before giving a thumbs-up. Of course, he didn’t think it was the best idea, but it was better than being a burden. In his mind, anything was better than that.

Geralt felt like there was something deeper than that - the bard had always wanted to ride on top of Roach, even during their first adventure in Posada, when he claimed he wasn’t wearing the right footwear - but still, as much as he felt the need to ask what was going on with Jaskier, or at least insist that he ride on Roach, he didn’t. Even if he kept trying to get Jaskier to ride on horseback, knowing full well that walking for a long distance while hungry and dehydrated could have undesirable consequences, he couldn’t force the issue.

“Hmm…”

Despite his hesitance, he climbed atop Roach.

“Let’s get going. If you need to ride Roach, just sp…”

Jaskier shot him a look from the ground; was he _seriously_ just about to say “speak up”?

“...let me know. I’ll stop and let you on.”

Yep. Nice save.

Jaskier acknowledged this, and he was relieved that he wouldn’t be a burden to Roach. It was like a weight was taken off his shoulders. As they kept going for maybe a hundred feet or so - Geralt and Roach on Jaskier’s left - he thought that the relief he felt must have affected how he walked, because every step he took felt as if he was walking on air. No, not just his steps - everything about him felt light.

Melitele, it was like he weighed _nothing._

All he had to do was just keep one foot in front of the other as he took in his surroundings; as he noticed all the things he never had before. He never noticed how the loud and repetitive clip-clop of Roach’s hooves could suddenly sound so soft and muffled, nor did he notice how the trees around him could look so… blurry?

_...Fuck._

Before he could alert Geralt of what was happening to him, he heard Roach halt as a hot flash hit him. This was immediately followed by the sound of the Witcher's feet hitting the ground as he hopped off of Roach called Jaskier’s name. Even though his White Wolf sounded so far away - despite only being three feet away from him - Jaskier staggered in the direction of Geralt's voice until his knees buckled and he fell forward.

The last thing Jaskier felt before unconsciousness claimed him was his Witcher’s arms around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See this? This is why you DRINK WATER.  
> Otherwise, you end up collapsing and passing out in the arms of Geralt of Rivia.  
> ...Well, that's not really something anyone would want to AVOID, so... nvm.  
> Also, I'm posting this v late at night, and I haven't done the most thorough job of proofreading, so I do apologize for grammar errors or other little mistakes! ^v^


	8. Of Waking Up In Unknown Places, Drinking Through A Funnel, and Reminiscing While Holding A Lute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier does... well... exactly what the title says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No heavy trigger warnings this chapter! There are a few mentions of articles of clothing being removed while the wearer is unconscious, but it's nothing more than a doublet and shoes. Happy Reading!

When Jaskier slowly awakened, the first thing he felt was a bed underneath him - not exactly a lavishly comfortable one, but it was easily ten times more comfortable than a mat on the ground - with a thin blanket covering him. Honestly, he wished that was the _only_ thing he would feel, but he wouldn’t be so lucky.

The next sensation he recognized was that of the stitches that threaded his mouth shut. Of course. Of fucking course. This was the second time he's woken up with that thread in his lips, and as uncomfortable they were to feel when he first woke up, it wasn’t like the first time he had woken up with them. There was no panic, just… disgust. He hated the feeling of that thread rubbing against his teeth, and he hated how it reminded him of the horrors he had gone through, of all that he lost the ability to do.

Fortunately, he was getting used to the feeling of waking up with stitches in his lips.

Unfortunately, he was getting used to the feeling of waking up with stitches in his lips.

The next thing he felt was the thirst. Melitele, his throat had never felt so dry - he didn’t think it could ever feel so dry. Unlike that morning and the night before -

(Wait, was it even the same day as it was when he passed out? He had no clue.)

\- not even swallowing his own saliva (or, as was the case for a few hours after... that, his own blood) was of any use. There was nothing.

Next, he felt the hunger. The pangs hit him incessantly, to the point where it felt like there was just a hole where his stomach was. That gaping, empty feeling was something he gladly would have passed out again to get rid of.

The last sensation to hit him was the headache.

Oh god, the fucking headache.

It was behind his eyes, just above his brow, at his temples - the pain was everywhere, and it was horrible. It wasn’t sharp so much as it was dull, aching, and agonizingly constant. It was like someone had put two metal plates to the sides, top, and back of his head, and started putting pressure on them as soon as he woke up.

He had only been somewhat awake for a few moments, and he already wanted to be unconscious again.

He probably would have passed out again, too, if it weren’t for the light from beyond his eyelids, so bright that even squeezing his eyes shut didn’t do much to make it go away. He wanted to lift his hands up to his face to block it out, or turn over on his side so he may find comfort in darkness again, but when he tried to move his arm, he felt like he was trying to lift ten tons. He was even more exhausted, he realized, than he was the entire morning before he passed out.

Besides, something else made him latch onto reality. It wasn’t what he saw - that being the brightness of his surroundings, whatever they were - but a smell.

What was that?

Death? Destiny? Heroics? Heartbreak?

No… onion.

_Geralt!_

All of those things he felt before may have kept him awake, and they already made him want to stop being awake, but knowing that Geralt was around was the only thing that pushed him to open his eyes.

So, despite how his eyes were so dry that nearly stung to open them, that’s what he did.

The brightness, he realized, was from the sunlight that came in from the window of the room he was in, which, judging by the direction that the sunlight came through, must have been to his right. Maybe it was afternoon now. Or was it a new day?

He noticed the walls of the room. They weren’t made of dark, cobwebbed and rotting wood like the last room he woke up in without having fallen asleep in it beforehand, but they were made of stone. Or brick. It was hard to tell, his eyes, still being so dry. Whatever the walls were made of, the way the light shined in gave it a very warm, cozy, homey feel to it.

But his home wasn’t this room, nor was it whatever this room was attached to.

As Jaskier looked to his right, he saw that it was sitting at his bedside, white hair hanging loosely around his face, his yellow eyes downcast and his lips drawn into a thin line.

Geralt didn’t even know Jaskier was awake yet; it looked like he was lost in his own thoughts. He could see it in his eyes; there was frustration and… worry? It was still such an unusual emotion for him to display, so Jaskier wasn’t sure if this was real, or if it was just an instance of his eyes playing tricks on him.

Anyway, it took Jaskier whimpering hoarsely through the stitches and shakily reaching out to the Witcher for him to snap out of whatever trance he was in. He blinked a few times before his eyes met those of the barely conscious buttercup.

_“Jaskier.”_

It almost sounded like a growl, but then again, almost everything the Witcher said sounded like a growl; such was the nature of Geralt “Perpetually Grumpy” of Rivia. Still, Jaskier felt that maybe it was intentional; that… that he was angry with him. It made sense - at least to a recently tortured, brutally silenced, nearly-delirious-from-thirst bard who was convinced that he was a burden - but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered as unconsciousness tugged at him again. No. No. He wanted to be awake, even if it hurt. He didn’t want to pass out anymore.

Geralt tapped Jaskier’s cheek a few times.

“Stay awake.”

_I’m trying, Geralt._

That’s what he would have said.

“You’re dehydrated.”

_No shit, Geralt._

That’s also what he would have said.

The Witcher leaned to the right to reach for something next to him (“him” being the Witcher himself, not Jaskier) but the bard couldn’t see what it was; he still laid flat on the bed, and despite his confusion, he still lacked the strength to sit up, no matter how much he wanted to.

Thankfully, that confusion didn’t stay for very long; only a few seconds passed before Geralt sat back up…

… with a funnel in his hand.

Dread instantly replaced confusion, pooling in the bard’s stomach as he eyed the thing warily. Geralt met his eyes again, this time with a similar yet different kind of dread; even though he personally wouldn’t experience it, he hated the thought of what he was going to put Jaskier through. This only made Jaskier feel worse. When the Witcher started to lean forward and put the funnel closer to his face, he weakly tried turning his head in a futile attempt to get away from it.

_No no it’ll hurt I don’t want it get it away no please-_

As Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the left, he felt Geralt gently put his hand against the left side of his jaw and guide his head back to where it was before; flat against the pillow. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he whimpered and opened his eyes again to look at Geralt, hoping to find some sort of comfort from him. He didn’t feel like he deserved it, but that didn’t change the fact that he wanted it. He didn’t know where he was, he felt terrible, and apparently, the only way to stop it was to shove something between his lips, which - in case this hasn’t been stressed enough - were _still fucking sewn shut._

“It’s alright. You need water.”

It was only five words, but they were enough.

Jaskier knew Geralt was right, as confused and uncomfortable and afraid as he was. Besides, hearing those words - _“It’s alright.”_ \- from that voice, the voice of his White Wolf… how could he not believe them? Just like before, when he attempted to remove those godforsaken stitches, his trust in Geralt outweighed any fear of pain or discomfort. With those words, he knew that no matter what happened, Geralt wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him.

Jaskier relaxed, his heartbeat still pounding in his ears as he nodded - a very small motion, but still one that the Witcher could make out.

_Okay._

With his free hand, Geralt found a gap in the stitches and used two fingers to delicately widen that gap as much as he could without hurting Jaskier. Admittedly, this wasn’t very much, but thankfully, it was enough to slip the narrow end of the funnel through.

This was the first time anything had actually entered his mouth since yesterday - at least, he _hoped_ all of that was still yesterday - and Jaskier expected that it would hurt by tugging at the stitches. However, while they weren’t loose enough to speak through by any stretch of the imagination, the stitches were just loose enough that the tube could fit through the gap without any pain. Despite how strange it felt for the thing to fit between his lips, he bit the end of it that was inside his mouth like a straw.

“Does it hurt?”

It didn’t, but Jaskier was scared of moving his head; he knew that would cause the instrument between his lips to rub against the stitches and, ironically enough, actually end up hurting him. But, unfortunately, the rest of his body still didn’t want to move in any way that would indicate a response to Geralt’s question.

“Uh-uh.” Jaskier weakly emitted the noise of denial, and it was probably the first time since getting the stitches that he communicated something vocally. However, he knew it wasn’t going to become a habit, and, to be frank, he was too damn thirsty to care.

(Well, he was too damn thirsty to care about _a lot_ of things before the stitches went in, but that was mostly due to being around Geralt and not due to legitimate dehydration.)

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement. As he held the funnel steady with one hand, he used the other to reach to his right side -

 _Melitele’s Tit,_ Jaskier thought, _What else does he have next to him?_

\- and pick up a pitcher of water.

“Get ready to swallow, Jaskier.”

Despite how undesirable this situation was, one incredibly inopportune thought popped into the back of Jaskier’s mind: if the two of them were in less drastic and more intimate circumstances, hearing that command from the Witcher would have been… exciting.

 _...No._ _Not thinking about that right now. Nope. Nope. No, sir._

Instead, he just did what Geralt told him to do and prepared himself so he wouldn’t end up choking on the water. The last thing he wanted to do was cough through the stitches. He wasn’t looking to shred his lips over something as trivial as some water going down the wrong pipe. Well, he wasn’t looking to shred his lips at all, but that was obvious.

He eyed Geralt with a look of readiness, and the urgency in his eyes conveyed that it couldn’t happen fast enough.

With a nod, Geralt started pouring water down the funnel.

As soon as the water hit Jaskier’s tongue, every other thought left his head. The confusion about where he was or how much time had passed, the shame he felt for being such a burden to Geralt, the insecurity about whether or not the Witcher was upset with him - none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but chugging the water. It was tepid, and it tasted of the metal pitcher it was in, but that didn’t matter either; it was the first thing he drank since _at least_ yesterday. It felt like the more he drank, the more he wanted to drink; neither he nor Geralt knew how much longer the former could have gone without drinking, but they both knew it wouldn’t have been very long.

There were a few times where Geralt stopped pouring so Jaskier could breathe, and when it happened, Jaskier would take deep gasps through his mouth that sounded heartbreakingly hollow through the funnel. He must have swallowed two cups of water before Geralt put down the pitcher for good and took the funnel out.

“That’s enough for now.”

He brushed some of Jaskier’s hair away from his face.

“You did good.”

Yes. Good. He liked that. That’s all he wanted to be right now: to be good in Geralt’s eyes. He liked it when Geralt told him nice things. But why? Why would he say something so nice after Jaskier proved himself to be a burden? Why would Geralt take the time to praise him for something so menial?

Despite how much effort it took, Jaskier tried to shakily lift his arm in an attempt to hold Geralt’s hand again, but he moved his hand back before Jaskier could come close to reaching it, and what little movement he actually made was so small that the Witcher didn’t even notice it. Even if he did, Jaskier wasn’t even sure that he would’ve let him hold his hand. He felt stupid for trying. Of course, Geralt wouldn’t want that. Not after he caused so many problems for him.

“I’m going to head downstairs, but I’ll be back. It shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes. Do you think you can stay awake until I get back?”

Jaskier nodded. He didn’t want his White Wolf to leave - he really, really didn’t want to be alone - but he could manage that; after everything Geralt did to take care of him, staying awake and waiting was the least he could do. Besides, the water helped. He was still far from being in the best condition - a few cups of water weren’t a miraculous cure for all of the effects that came from at least twenty-four hours of starvation and dehydration - but he was actually confident that he could stay awake.

If for no other reason, he’d do it for Geralt, at least.

The aforementioned Witcher raised one eyebrow.

_“Honest?”_

Fuck, now Geralt didn’t even trust him. Of course, his skepticism was not unwarranted - fucking hell, the last thing he remembered before waking up here was collapsing in Geralt’s arms after making him believe that he was strong enough to head to their destination on foot - but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. So, he just nodded again.

“...Hmm.”

Geralt took his word for it - well, more specifically, his _nod_ for it - and went to do whatever it is that he needed to do. There was a twinge in Jaskier's chest when Geralt left; even if it wouldn’t be for very long, and even if it wasn’t very far, he still didn’t want to be left alone. But he _was_ alone, and a silenced, disoriented Jaskier, left without his White Wolf, was an incredibly vulnerable Jaskier who was now alone with his thoughts.

Shame sunk its claws into him as he sat up against the wall. The headboard of the bed dug into his back, but he didn’t care. He tilted his head up to the ceiling for a bit, touching the back of his head to the wall before letting it loll forward again. His head still hurt - likely a symptom of hunger - and his stomach growled - _definitely_ a symptom of hunger - but it was nothing compared to how his thoughts assaulted him.

_…What the fuck was I thinking?_

_I - I - I had already caused so much trouble._

_Damn right I did. I clearly upset Geralt, as if I haven’t made his life hard enough already._

_I - I didn’t mean to._

_Well, I still did it. He told me it wasn’t a good idea to push myself, and I did anyway._

_I just thought it would be easier on Roach. I - I didn’t - I didn’t want to be an inconvenience._

_That’s all I am. An inconvenience. What good am I for? I can barely even say anything without my… my…_

His eyes snapped open, squeezed shut before to quell the pain of stinging tears.

_My journal!_

Jaskier’s insecurity-ridden thoughts went to the back of his mind as he focused. He wanted his journal. If for nothing else, he could use it to apologize to Geralt for all the problems he thought he had brought upon the Witcher.

Luckily, he didn’t have to look for very long, nor did he have to go very far.

See, now that his head was propped up against the wall, he could see more of the room he had woken up in. He could see the white drapes that adorned it’s one window on the right side of the room, the wooden chair next to his bed that Geralt was sitting in only minutes ago, and a dark oak nightstand directly to his right.

On that nightstand was his journal, laid flat with a quill and ink beside it.

Where was his charcoal?

Were that quill and ink meant for him to use?

No, no, he figured that they weren’t. It looked to be a very nice quill - made from a goose feather, maybe - and very nice ink. Surely it wasn’t his, so he figured that he shouldn’t waste it with his words or sully it with his touch. So, he left it alone; whatever he wanted to say could wait until Geralt came back.

He looked down at his body and saw that he was only wearing his white tunic - still stained down the chest by his own dried blood - and his trousers; his shoes and doublet were missing.

_Huh? What? Where’s my-_

He craned his neck a bit and saw that his light blue doublet was draped at the foot of the bed, and his shoes were on the ground, near the foot of the bed, almost below his doublet. So, his question was answered almost as quickly as it had risen. But as quickly as that question was answered, two new questions arose.

_Did Geralt take off my shoes?_

_Did… did Geralt take off my doublet?_

He knew that if Geralt did do those things, it was done for the sake of comfort, or at least so he wouldn’t overheat with his doublet on. Still, the thought of the Witcher undressing him…

His eyes widened as a blush spread across his nose and cheeks.

_Not the time, Jask._

Conveniently finding a distraction from that thought, he saw his lute propped up against the nightstand.

Carefully, he reached down and picked it up, placing it across his lap. He didn’t think to hold it in a playing position, simply because he wasn’t thinking to play it. Instead, he ran his fingers along the wood.

This was partly done out of melancholy.

He loved his music so much; it had been everything to him, a driving force in his life. He cherished his lute dearly, for it had accompanied him throughout every single one of his musical endeavors, but…

… His work was rarely, if ever, solely instrumental.

His lute was usually a backdrop meant to accompany his singing, but what was there to accompany now?

Humming?

Whimpering?

Sure, he could still play, and maybe he would in the future, but for now, the feeling he felt when he ran his fingers over the strings of his lute was the same one he felt when he ran his fingers over the string that went up and down his mouth; he only felt heartache, a reminder of what was taken from him.

Still, there was something about the lute that made it pleasant to hold; of course, it wasn’t just _anyone’s_ lute before it’s strings became his to pluck - it used to be Filivandrel’s lute. That simple fact, however, wasn’t what made him feel fond of the instrument, despite how painful the thought of playing it was.

He had gotten it on the day he first met Geralt.

They had known one another for a few years now, but he still remembered that day like it was yesterday. He had been singing a… well, _lackluster_ song about nonexistent creatures and abortions in some dingy pub in Posada. It wasn’t his best work, he’ll admit - or maybe the patrons of that tavern just weren’t his best audience - and it didn’t earn him much more than some crude critiques of his performance and a few pieces of bread thrown at his head. Yummo.

 _Fuck._ Jaskier briefly interrupted his own reminiscing. _I miss bread._

Well, he continued to himself, that wasn’t _all_ he found that day.

He remembered looking up from the floor where he picked up the stake bread and stuffed it in his pockets. It wasn’t the first time one of his more unimpressive performances was cut off by airborne food items, but it _was_ the first time he looked up to see the most beautiful man he had ever seen sitting across the tavern.

Geralt had been sitting by himself in a dark corner, but he was still next to a window that allowed afternoon light to shine on him - on his white hair that draped down his back, the sides of it tied back so it was much easier to see his _fucking beautiful_ face, into his steely, captivating yellow eyes, and across the black Witcher armor that donned his broad shoulders and enticing, amazing body.

Indeed, when Jaskier laid eyes on Geralt, he had but one thought.

_Immediately, I love him._

And he still loved him now. When he first saw Geralt, he saw a dark, brooding, sexy beast of a man whom, to be completely frank, he wanted to climb like a tree.

But when the two of them were in that cave with Filavandrel and the other elves, and everything Jaskier had learned about what happened to the elves was proven wrong…

When he heard the Witcher urge them to rebuild their lives that were destroyed by the humans in the so-called Great Cleansing…

When he explained that he still wanted to protect humans, even though they disrespected and attacked him…

When he accepted his own death, saying he was ready to die if Filivandrel needed to kill him, but still tried to defend Jaskier from harm… 

Geralt became something more than what Jaskier saw in that tavern. So, so, so much more.

He wasn’t some cold, emotionless monster hunter, or some… some _butcher_. Gods, even though he didn’t know what happened in Blaviken, hearing people - the same people who Geralt put himself through hell through and risked his life to protect - use such a brutal word to describe his White Wolf was beyond infuriating.

No, Geralt of Rivia was the strongest, bravest, most beautiful man he had ever known.

He may have been a mutant and not fully human, sure, but he had more humanity in one finger than he’d seen some humans have in their entire hearts. That’s why he abandoned all sense of self-preservation and yelled at Arachnir after he said that Geralt was a monster. There was honestly no sense in it, but hearing someone speak so disrespectfully about his White Wolf just caused something inside him to snap. He didn’t know what he was thinking when he did it; he just knew that those incredulous statements made him furious.

As he thought about what he said, a question popped into his head.

_If I knew that Arachnir would do what he did to me if I said those things, would I say those things again?_

…He had no answer.

Jaskier heard footsteps approach the door, and he instantly pulled his knees to his chest and put his head down to hide his face; the last thing he wanted was to potentially scare some… some… well, he didn’t know where he was, so he didn’t know the specific kind of person that would open that door.

“Jaskier.”

Once he heard that voice, he instantly relaxed and lifted his head.

Geralt had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was kind of a light chapter, but after the last seven, I thought y'all deserved one! :) Besides, with the pacing of this particular part of the story, I wanted to stop here before I ended up making a chapter that was way too long/loaded for my taste. Anyway, next chapter will be a bit more interesting, so until then... good vibes!  
> EDIT: I originally said that Jaskier was wearing a chemise in this chapter, but I changed it to tunic because, after a quick google search, I found that a medieval chemise was actually more of a dress. Not to say that Jaskier shouldn't wear a dress (He would be stunning. This is a fact), but a tunic was more accurate LOL.  
> EDIT: I changed "They had known one another for a little over a year now," to "They had known one another for a few years now".


	9. Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tells Jaskier about where he's woken up. Jaskier wants to stop feeling like a burden, but that proves to be rather difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for waiting for this chapter!!! Hopefully I'll be back to regular updates after this chapter ahahaha.

Jaskier still knew very little about what was going on, and that sentiment didn’t change as he looked at Geralt from where he was - this being on the bed across the room, huddled up against the wall.

Where was he?

What happened to him?

How long was he out?

Was Geralt angry? Was he upset?

What could he do to help Geralt stop feeling those things?

… Why was Geralt holding a bowl of soup?

Dread pooled in his empty stomach at the thought of using that funnel again, but his hunger pangs continued in spite of this. Jaskier eyed Geralt in confusion as he approached his chair again and set the bowl on the nightstand, next to the ink, quill, and journal. The lark still had no clue what was going on Geralt reached to the right of the nightstand - which he couldn’t see due to sitting to it’s right - and seemed to rummage in a bag that must have been there before he brought out… a metal straw.

_Oh, thank Melitele’s sagging tits, it’s not a fucking funnel._

If it wasn’t clear enough, he wasn’t fond of the funnel.

He pieced everything else together fairly quickly. When Geralt put the straw into the bowl, Jaskier reached out and used one hand to hold it - thankfully, his grip was stable enough that none of it spilled - and used the other hand to wedge the straw through a gap in the stitches. It wasn’t painful, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant. It must not have looked pleasant either, considering how Geralt averted his gaze the instant that Jaskier started sipping the soup. Jaskier could see how his eyes went from looking at the stones on the wall across from him, to a speck on the wall that Jaskier was sitting against, to even his own hands - anywhere but at the bard. Truly, Geralt did this for what he thought was the bard’s sake; he assumed that the last thing he would want during such an ugly process was for Geralt to stare at him.

But Jaskier didn’t know this, and he took the aversion of the Witcher’s gaze to mean that he truly couldn’t look at him like this. Of course, Jaskier didn’t blame him - he actually preferred it like this, for Geralt was right to assume that Jaskier wouldn’t want the Witcher to stare at him the entire time he did this, but… 

Well, at least the soup was good.

“It’s from downstairs. It’s not poisoned. I made sure of it.”

Jaskier looked up from the bowl to look at Geralt, who seemed to focus on one of the many stones that made up the wall in front of him.

“We’re at an inn, Jaskier. You’ve been asleep for about four hours.” Jaskier was relieved to know he wasn’t out for too long; it was less disorienting that way, and he knew that the longer he stayed unconscious, the more he would have upset Geralt. But there was so much he was still confused about - a plethora of questions that he had ever since he woke up - and even if he was in a state where he could ask those questions with ease (which he wasn’t), he didn’t know where he would begin.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

“You passed out a mile away from this town.” Geralt explained, “Haven’t found out the name.” He raised his eyebrows minutely and tilted his head a bit. “But it’s not important.”

One of the many things that Jaskier loved about Geralt were the little mannerisms he did as he retold things. How he would tilt his head at certain points, as if he was mentally jumping from one point in the story to the next. How he would raise his eyebrows a bit when he figured out what to explain next. How a subtle change in expression, like a little nod or the furrowing of his brow, would signal if something good or bad happened. Geralt may not have been as eloquent a storyteller as Jaskier was, but the bard loved the way the Witcher retold even the simplest things. It wasn’t only the grand, heroic, witchery, pinnacle-of-bravery things that Jaskier found himself enamored with Geralt for; it was subtle things like this, too. The ordinary things. The things only he picked up on.

“It didn’t take very long to get here on Roach; the first thing I did was try to find a healer here. When I did, I made sure he never saw… those.”

They both knew exactly what he was talking about; it went without saying (which was fortunate for Jaskier).

“I tried telling him about what happened, but he passed it off as exhaustion and sent me away. Said he…” his eyebrows furrowed as his lips drew into a thin line, "Said he wasn’t going to waste his time treating the friend of a butcher.”

There it was again. _Butcher._

Jaskier hated how that label still affected his Witcher, even with all the hard work he’d put into changing his reputation for the better. Even if the ears of everyone in the Continent were graced by “Toss A Coin”, there were always going to be people who would see Geralt of Rivia as nothing more than a monster - than the _Butche r of Bl aviken_ , and that frustrated Jaskier to no end.

It seemed to frustrate Geralt too, judging by how Jaskier could see something new in the Witcher’s gaze… resentment? Bitterness?

 _“No matter how he felt about me, he should never have turned away someone who needed help.”_ Geralt sounded as if he was barely holding back a growl. _“You were unconscious right in front of him, and he turned you away. Some fucking healer he is.”_

So that was it. He wasn’t angry for himself because he was disrespected - he rarely ever was, despite how such frustration would've been warranted - but he was angry for _Jaskier._

“But he was right about one thing - it was exhaustion. That’s why you passed out. Combined with the dehydration and starvation…”

Geralt finally looked him in the eye.

“You overexerted yourself, Jaskier.”

His expression was all but unreadable. Jaskier couldn’t just pin one emotion when he looked at the Witcher’s face - Frustration? Anger? Exasperation? - but he knew Geralt was unhappy, and that was enough for the lark to cast his eyes down in guilt. He didn’t mean for this to happen. He didn’t mean to worry his White Wolf, to pass out, to wake up without a clue where he was or how long he had been out, only to be told the answers to those things by the same person he worried so much…

... He didn’t mean to be a burden.

Geralt looked ahead at the wall again.

“I brought you here after that. The inn was pretty quiet, and the innkeeper was much more… receptive to my presence than that healer. She heard your song of praises about me, and she…” he paused, as if to remember her precise wording, “she wanted to “be of use to the White Wolf and his bard in any way they needed.”

_His bard…_

Gods, his heart ached with how badly he wanted that to be true. He wanted to be a bard, and he wanted to be Geralt’s.

But he wasn’t a bard anymore - at least, not one that could sing, not in the way he had been his entire life - and he wasn’t Geralt’s.

Not in the way he wanted to be.

“I tried paying her, but she insisted tonight be on the house. I found it hard to believe that someone who lived in the same town as such a… bitter doctor would be so welcoming, so she was a surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. I even tried to ask her if there were any monsters causing problems for this place, but she said this is quite the peaceful town. She even said the last big thing here was a few days ago, when some “dreamy troubadour” performed here…”

Geralt drew his eyes up to the ceiling as if to try and remember something. Jaskier heard the words “dreamy troubadour” and was almost certain of who he was talking about.

“...Balding Mark, or something.”

Yep. Just as he thought. That was Geralt-couldn’t-be-bothered-to-properly-remember-something-he-thought-was-irrelevant-ish for the name of Jaskier’s arch-nemesis. Well, it may have been more accurate to say Valdo Marx was his rival, but rivals didn’t typically wish death upon one another, as Jaskier had done multiple times - drunkenly, he'd admit, but it still happened - so maybe arch-nemesis _was_ the better term to describe that pompous, curly-haired, goateed little fucking _prick._

...Okay, Jaskier had _a lot_ of words he could use to describe Valdo Marx.

Anyway, hearing that name would’ve made Jaskier seethe with pure, bardish rage if there weren’t a million other things he was thinking about right now.

“When I knew you’d be safe up here,” Geralt continued, “I went to the market here in town for a few things. I didn’t have any trouble at the market, either.” Geralt said as his eyebrows raised again, indicating surprise as his eyes widened a fraction, “Thought it was because people were wary of crossing me, but they simply showed no interest in making anything difficult for the “White Wolf.” For some merchants, I had to insist on paying them.” he recalled, almost exasperated, “It seems like your coin song won over much more people in this town than I thought. Guess that so-called doctor was an outlier of sorts…”

Well, that was a relief. His song - his _praise_ of the Witcher - had done something good for him. After what Arachnir did - after he was _tortured_ for praising Geralt - Jaskier was somewhat glad to know that _something_ good came from his appraisals of the White Wolf.

_I'd always praise him. Even if nothing good like that came of it. Even if it attracted the same kind of hostility that Geralt faced just for existing, I'd still fucking praise him._

_… Even if I knew Arachnir would do this to me because of it?_

Just like when he asked himself that question before, he was left without an answer again.

“Most of our other supplies are with Roach. She's a little tired, but she's fine. I got the pot and straws that we went looking for, but I knew you… might not be in the most mobile state when you woke up, so I got the funnel for safe measure. I also got a few other things, like that ink and quill by your journal.”

Jaskier glanced at the tools next to his journal. So they _were_ meant for him. Were… were they gifts? After everything that happened, Geralt of Rivia had bought him gifts?

_No, if it was out of his own pocket, surely he’d want the coin back. But how could I repay him? I can’t perform any music that involves using my voice, and I can’t just kill monsters for money like Geralt._

“Don’t worry about paying any of the coin back.” Geralt added, glancing at Jaskier again as if he was reading the bard’s mind, “We needed the new supplies, and the ink and quill were… well, gifts. It’s high-quality ink, and that quill is made from a goose feather. I… I thought it would be useful, with all the writing you’ll be doing. I also bought another journal. I wasn't sure how many pages you had left in the one you had. The inkwell is small enough that it’s easily portable; I just hope I won’t mistake it for one of my potions in a fight.”

Despite his stoic expression, Jaskier saw Geralt huff a bit of air out his nose. At this point, Jaskier traveled with the Witcher long enough to know that was the Geralt of Rivia equivalent to an average man’s chuckle. He… he was joking to himself!

Unfortunately, as he was drinking the last bit of soup in the bowl, Jaskier didn’t do much to indicate amusement.

Geralt’s expression grew heavy once again.

“I may not have found anyone to reverse that spell yet, so… it was the least I could do.”

If Jaskier weren’t currently in the middle of pulling the straw out from between his lips, finishing what was his first meal in just over a day, he would have shaken his head. He was flattered that Geralt was determined to find someone that could unenchant the stitches, but Jaskier couldn’t help but feel like Geralt was lying to himself. Jaskier remembered how Arachnir’s completely and utterly pitch black eyes bore into him condescendingly as he explained that he was the only one who would be able to break the spell that made the stitches his lips unbreakable. He wouldn’t have sounded so certain if it wasn’t true… right?

“Anyway,” Geralt lifted his head and continued on, apparently trying to shed that heaviness from what he said before. “I’ve been here ever since I got back with the supplies. After I gave you the water, I went and got that soup from the innkeeper. Tested it for poison myself.”

_So, an indirect kiss…_

That probably wasn’t the case, but the thought comforted Jaskier. So, as he set the bowl back on the nightstand, the bard decided that as far as he was concerned, that _was_ the case.

“And so…” Geralt made eye contact with Jaskier again. “Here we are.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say; even if he could speak, he couldn’t imagine the words he would say to his Witcher. He… he’d done _so much_ for him. Bringing him here. Buying supplies for the both of them. Getting a gift for him - a very nice, thoughtful one at that. Staying by his side until he awoke. Helping him drink water. Bringing him soup.

What did Jaskier do to deserve him? Especially after causing so much trouble and being such an inconvenience before? His weakness was why they even had to do any of this. He was too weak to keep moving forward without passing out. He was too weak to break free from that damn webbing and fight back against Arachnir. He was too weak to stop that spider from abducting him in the first place.

...He was even more of a burden now.

Geralt still had to stop in this little town for supplies, and he still had to spend coin on extra things so Jaskier could get by with him. That would have happened before, but because he pushed himself too hard - because he was an _idiot_ who overworked himself and expected it to go well - everything was harder than it had to be. He had to be _carried_ to this town, being a physical burden as well as a physical one. He had to be taken to a bigoted healer, who disrespected his beloved Witcher. He… he just laid there while Geralt did so much to take care of him.

Fuck. Jaskier hated this, and he hated how Geralt was looking at him. He could barely make out any one emotion in the Witcher’s yellow-eyed gaze; he just knew he was upset. To Jaskier, it looked like that tender Geralt - the Geralt who held him so closely the night before, the Geralt who tried so gently to remove Jaskier’s stitches, the Geralt who brushed his hair off his face so softly after giving him water - was gone. He didn’t like that. He missed Geralt’s tenderness; he wanted it back, even though he didn’t feel like he deserved it.

...Finally, he knew what he wanted to say.

Jaskier could see Geralt follow his movements with his eyes as he opened his journal, dipped the quill in the ink, and wrote something down. Geralt averted his gaze elsewhere as Jaskier wrote. Good. It was hard to write with eyes on his paper that weren’t his own.

When he was done, he set the quill on the nightstand next to it’s inkwell and flipped his journal around to show Geralt. His heart was pounding in his chest, and the book shook in his quivering hands.

_“I’m sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean to upset you. However badly I made you feel, I’m sorry. If I knew all of this would happen, I never would have pushed myself. I’m sorry. Whatever you want me to do to make you feel less upset with me, I’ll do it. I’m sorry.”_

… Of course Geralt was upset.

He was upset with people like that healer, who would go so far as to turn away someone who clearly needed help, simply because of who brought him in. Yes, he was a Witcher, and yes, there was more blood on his hands than he would have liked.

But Jaskier’s hands were clean.

They knew nothing of brutality, of bloodshed, of _murder;_ the only ways they could do anything immoral was if playing lovely melodies, “sneakily” petting Roach in ways that Geralt definitely noticed (but didn’t point out due to the fact that Jaskier looked so adorable when he thought he was getting away with it), and having the most gentle touch he had ever known from a human were somehow sinful.

Geralt was used to being attacked, othered, looked down on (even though, in a physical sense, most people looked up at him), and hated even before Blaviken, and _that_ label only made it worse. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, but it was nothing that Jaskier should’ve had to handle. Geralt usually shrugged off the stink-eyes, spittings, and insults hurled his way like it was nothing, but this crossed a line; as much as that godforsaken “butcher” moniker felt like knives in his back every time it was used against him,he was used to it. But the fact that it was used against _Jaskier…_ it made him want to spit.

He was upset in the way that fury still burned inside him when he thought of the spider who did this to Jaskier.

That pale face whose sharp features contorted into a revolting grin as he taunted Geralt - as he remembered torturing such a precious, beautiful buttercup. Those spindly, bony fingers that reeked of the lark’s blood. Those black eyes that, as much as he hated it, looked so much like the Witcher’s own when he underwent the effects of one of his potions.

 _Fuck._ Geralt thought. _I hope he never sees me like that._

With each passing moment he watched Jaskier in this state, Geralt realized he’d let Arachnir off easy. A stab to the gut and a slit across his throat? Too good for him. Too fucking good. He wished that he had waited until that spider reversed that horrible fucking spell, and when he did, Geralt would’ve made that miserable arachnid’s final moments nothing but drawn-out, absolute hell for laying so much as one finger on such a lovely lark like Jaskier.

Or, better yet, he’d let Jaskier do it himself.

Either way, it didn’t matter much now.

More than anything, he was upset at himself. He knew something was wrong that morning. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was there.

He knew it when Jaskier dreaded buying the supplies he would need.

He knew it when Jaskier looked as upset as he did when Geralt’s attempt at removing the stitches failed.

Most of all, he knew it when Jaskier refused to ride Roach and insisted on walking alongside the horse and Witcher.

But he never pressed Jaskier about it, even though he should have. There was more he should have said - more he should have _done_ to prevent Jaskier from potentially hurting himself. After everything he had done to help Jaskier down from his suicide attempt the night before - after he spent so much of last night absolutely horrified that he would lose Jaskier to the blade of his own dagger - Geralt was foolish enough to let Jaskier push himself to the point where he put his health in danger. No, not just his health; Geralt knew it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that Jaskier very well could’ve put his very life in jeopardy again. This situation could’ve gotten far worse than it currently was; Jaskier could’ve pushed himself into a condition that couldn’t be fixed by some bedrest, water, and soup.

If that happened, what would Geralt have done to prevent it? Well, it would’ve been the same thing he did to prevent what actually happened: fuck all.

Besides a few useless words, he did nothing to keep Jaskier from overexerting himself, and couldn’t stop thinking about that. Guilt assaulted the Witcher ceaselessly, clinging to him as tightly as he himself clung to Roach’s reins as he rode to this town, unconscious Jaskier in tow. Even now, at his temporary bedside - even though he was now fully awake, as well as fed and hydrated - the grip of that guilt was steadfast and agonizing.

So, of course Geralt was upset… but not at Jaskier.

However, as Jaskier held that apology-filled page in front of him with trembling hands, upturned eyebrows, shining eyes that threatened to spill tears down his cheeks, and a lower lip that quivered as much as the stitches would allow, Geralt realized he did a terrible job at showing that. Every time he read over another “I’m sorry” on that page, an invisible dagger went through his chest. The fact that it must've been painful for Jaskier's lip to tremble with the stitches in it only made it worse. Of course, he was upset that Jaskier was in this position, but he wasn’t upset _with_ Jaskier. How could he be? How could he imply that he was? It’s not like the bard _wanted_ to push himself to the point of collapsing. It wasn't like he wanted any of this. How could the Witcher hold that against the fretting lark?

Geralt sighed. He had to fix this. 

“It’s fine.”

Jaskier’s shoulders sagged as he cast his gaze downward.

No. No. No. Fuck. That came out wrong. He made it worse. By saying that it was fine, Geralt implied that Jaskier _did_ upset him, and that wasn’t true. It just wasn’t, and he couldn’t just let him believe it was. Geralt was definitely trying to communicate more clearly with Jaskier - especially since Jaskier’s own preferred method of communication was… hindered, to say the least - but it was still a considerable challenge for the WItcher, as he was just about as good at accurately articulating his emotions as he was at keeping vengeful princesses alive and not getting entire towns to turn on him.

Meaning, of course, that he wasn’t particularly good at it at all.

He cursed internally - well, it wasn’t entirely internal, as it came out in the form of a hissed “fuck” - and shook his head.

“I mean… I’m not upset with you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier sat up again and brought his gaze back to his White Wolf. He set his journal in his lap, nodding a bit as if to let that fact sink in - _It’s alright. It’s okay. He’s not upset with you._ \- but he still looked at Geralt with a silent implorement for him to elaborate. There was still something wrong, and Jaskier knew it. He just didn’t know what. If it wasn’t him, what _was_ it?

Geralt sighed. He knew that wasn’t a sufficient answer. Not really. He wished it were, but Jaskier deserved more than that, especially now that Geralt knew that Jaskier felt as ashamed as he did, and he believed that the Witcher was upset with him ever since he woke up.

He sighed and looked upwards, composing his thoughts for a moment before drawing his eyes back to Jaskier.

“I was worried, Jaskier.”

Yes. Good. A concise, accurate statement. Still not enough though.

“When you started to stumble... when you collapsed in my arms…”

_...You took me back to Blaviken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...C'mon, did you think I WASN'T going to throw in a "Jaskier Hates Valdo Marx" paragraph? Also, The Umbrella Academy season 2 comes out in about a week, so, naturally, I had to make it sound at least *a little* like he resembles Robert Sheehan. Gotta incorporate my favorite HC lol.  
> Also, there's going to be a description of a PTSD flashback next chapter, so take that how you will.  
> Have a lovely day/night! xoxo


	10. To Compare A Lark To A Shrike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier isn't the first person Geralt loved who collapsed in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry it's taken so long for an update. School and life have... well, made regular updates a little hard. Also, I was in a slump, as far as this fanfic went, and that's why I put some one-shots up. ANOTHER also, this chapter was originally part of a MUCH BIGGER chapter, but I really, really wanted to put out an update, and the chapter I was/am working on got very lengthy, so I thought I'd divide it up by making the following it's own chapter.  
> Content Warning: Geralt has a PTSD flashback to Blaviken.

_...You took me back to Blaviken._

Yes. It would’ve been accurate to say that. Maybe he didn't physically take him back to that town in a literal sense - like by conjuring a portal or by some other method of travel - but he did make Geralt feel the same fear and dread he felt on that day, in that market.

No, it was even more vivid than that. So much more vivid.

When Jaskier’s footsteps halted on that trail, and the sound of twigs snapping underfoot went silent, it felt for a moment like Geralt’s heart halted too. He looked down at Jaskier - at how he seemed to sway back and forth for a moment, as if he were hit by a wave of heat or dizziness.

Something was wrong.

Geralt pulled the reins and brought Roach to a halt; his feet couldn’t hit the ground fast enough as he hopped down from his steed.

“Jaskier!”

It sounded like a growl as it left his mouth, but it wasn’t one of anger so much as it was one of worry. An angry kind of worry. Or a worried kind of angry. Regardless of how it sounded, Jaskier was apparently still cognizant enough to recognize his name being called as Geralt ran the very short distance - a few feet, maybe, couldn’t have been more than that - between himself and the bard. His eyes, unfocused, fluttered as a weak, muffled whimper could just barely be heard behind stitched-shut lips.

The Witcher saw Jaskier stumble towards him, but as easily he could tell that the sun was high in the sky, he could tell that poor Jaskier was collapsing. So, as he fell, Geralt held out his arms and -

_Fuck._

Something changed the instant Jaskier fell against the Witcher’s chest.

Geralt wasn’t on that forest trail anymore. He was in Blaviken.

He wasn’t kneeling on soft, lightly tread-upon earth, but on blood-soiled stone.

He didn’t smell the pleasant aroma of trees and wildflowers anymore. He smelled the revolting stench of blood and guts.

He didn’t hear the birds’ tweets or Roach’s whinnies. He heard cries of pain and fear, and his own heart pounding against his rib cage.

Jaskier’s brown hair wasn’t short with a few locks swooping down his forehead, but shoulder length and uneven as it fell down in curls.

His eyes weren’t cornflower blue anymore. Now they were brown, wide open, and looking up at nothing.

His ridiculous light blue doublet and white tunic were now a red shirt and bloodied chestplate, golden brooch glistening as his - no, _her_ chest neither rose nor fell.

It wasn’t Jaskier in his arms.

It was Renfri’s body.

The nightmare of Jaskier ending up like Renfri - dead in his arms, painfully ripped away from this world from something that was Geralt’s doing - plagued him more nights than they didn’t, but that didn’t stop panic from absolutely gutting him at this very moment. This was…

Fuck, it was just so sudden.

When he would go to sleep, he would _expect_ the nightmares - await them, even. He’d usually wake up either by himself, in the company of either a very concerned or a very asleep Roach. There were a few times, actually, where Jaskier would also be concerned if he wasn't asleep.

_“Geralt,” he would ask, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “what happened?”_

_“Nothing.” Geralt would lie._

_“But… but you were-”_

_“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Jaskier. Just on edge from that monster.” He’d tell him. Truly, he wasn’t wrong when he would say this; Jaskier would easily assume he was talking about the subject of a contract, not himself._

_“I…” Jaskier would yawn. “I can sing you back to sleep, if you like.”_

_No. No. He deserved the nightmares. He was the reason Renfri would never wake, so he didn’t deserve in the slightest to sleep even somewhat peacefully._

_“No. Please, just go back to sleep. Long day in the morning.”_

_“Alright… Goodnight, Geralt.”_

_“Goodnight, Jaskier.”_

He would either manage to go back to sleep somehow - a miraculous feat - or stay awake for the rest of the night.

But this... this was _instant_.

There was a very faint part of his mind that knew it wasn’t real, but it was drowned out by panic - by fucking _fear._ He could only breathe in the form of gasps. He wanted to move, but his limbs felt like stone. His heart pounded against his rib cage as if desperate to escape. His mind screamed for something to change, but he couldn’t do anything but stare down at Renfri -

At Jaskier - 

At Ren - 

At Jask - 

At - At - At -

Something knocked upside the Witcher’s head. A stone? Was it a stone? Was he being stoned again?

No. Not a stone. Softer. Gentler.

He whipped his head around and found a face only inches away from his own. A horse’s face. Brown eyes. Brown coat. White stripe down the nose.

Roach. Yes. Roach headbutted him. Roach.

He brought a trembling hand up and gently touched her, slowing his breathing as he ran his fingers across her coat. Soft. Smooth. Real. Real Roach. Good.

Blinking his stinging eyes, he let Roach nuzzle him as he brushed his fingers - _not bloody, no, not covered in her blood, clean_ \- through her mane.

“Not her…” he mumbled, half to Roach, half to himself, “It’s not her…”

Yes. He knew that. But reality sunk back in like it was coming down in droplets from a leaking roof. His arm grew sore under Jaskier’s weight, but he could still barely move - he could barely even recognize it. He continued to pet Roach as he slowly, slowly became grounded again.

A few minutes passed before he became fully aware of himself and his surroundings; before he completely realized he was still in the forest, down on one knee as he held Jaskier with one arm under his back.

Not Blaviken. Not holding Renfri’s bleeding corpse.

The forest. Holding Jaskier. Good.

Holding an unconscious Jaskier. Bad.

Holding a Jaskier who very well may have just died on the spot. Very very bad.

Of course, no one else would’ve jumped to “died on the spot” as quickly as Geralt did, but this wasn’t the first time someone collapsed in his arms - the flashback he just had was proof of that, just as blatant as the brooch on his sword - so he was quick to fear this collapsing had the same result as the last one: someone important to him was dead in his arms.

To the Witcher, if Jaskier died in his arms at that very moment, and it could’ve been prevented were it not for his poor decision making, it would feel no different than that day in Blaviken.

No. Actually, it would feel worse. So much fucking worse.

Renfri deserved so much more than what life dealt to her. The world failed her. _He_ failed her. Worse, he ripped away any chance for the world to do right by her. Threatening that damned Stregobor in an attempt to protect her corpse - even though the Witcher believed that if it weren’t for his own decisions, it wouldn’t have been her corpse, but _her_ \- wasn’t enough. He should’ve killed that damn wizard when he had the chance.

But whatever was between him and Renfri, comparing that to what he felt towards Jaskier was like comparing the stars of the night sky to the sun itself. And all those men… even though he carried the burden that was his memory of slaughtering them - of _butchering_ them - as he carried his own body, they were strangers to him.

But Jaskier… 

Back at that tavern in Posada, the Witcher had no clue what to make of that bright-eyed bard singing some ditty about made-up creatures and abortion. He was just there to get a drink, and maybe a contract, if he was lucky. Honestly, he thought he would’ve been lucky to get so much as a shitty ale, with the prejudice exercised against him as a Witcher being extrapolated by that “Butcher” title.

Somehow, he had even _less_ of a clue what to think of the bard when he approached him. He expected insults, proddings, and disgust, but...

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

...That’s not what happened.

The Witcher tried to shoo him away, more-or-less growling that he was there to drink alone. The last person who struck up a conversation with him in a tavern ended up dead in his arms, so he hoped that the bard would just fuck off, but he rarely ever got what he hoped for, and such a rarity would not arise in this situation.

“Right. Good. No one else hesitated to comment on the _quality_ of my performance.”

_Or a lack thereof, Bard._

“Except… for _you_.”

Geralt looked up at him with a poker face, hoping his deadpan stare would deter the bard.

Nope.

“Come ooon… you don’t want to keep a man with...” He made an awkward face as he used his free hand - the one not holding a drink - to gesture toward his pants. “...Bread in his pants waiting.”

...What was he _doing_?

This poofy-shouldered musician (Geralt wasn’t even sure he should call him that) was so awkward that it nearly made the Witcher cringe. Honest to the gods, he was truly bewildered by the nonsensical nature of this bard, and that bewilderment multiplied tenfold when he sat down in front of him, eagerly asking for a critique.

“...They don’t exist.”

Yes. Good. Blunt. To the point.

“...Whaaat don’t exist?” 

Fuck. Not good enough. Not blunt enough. Not to the point enough.

“The creatures in your song.” he specified, purposefully making his voice drip with boredom. As he should've expected, the bard didn’t go away and instead asked how he knew. To this, he said nothing.

_Who the hell is this bard? What’s gotten into him that’s made him want to approach me like this?_

The bard bewildered the Witcher yet again when his… when his face broke into... a _smile_?

“Oooh, fun! White hair. Big ol’ loner. Two very… very scary looking swords.” He kept pointing out the obvious about Geralt with excitement. The bard was, as much as it seemed impossible to the Witcher, excited - _happy_ , even - to look at him.

_...Oh. That’s it. He’s an idiot._

Yes. That’s how he saw Jaskier when they first met. He saw an idiot.

He saw an idiot who was either insanely brave or impossibly foolish to accompany the Witcher on his contract to deal with a "devil” in order to get some real-life inspiration for his songs.

He saw an idiot who was somehow undaunted by the gut-punch Geralt sent him stumbling to the ground with for calling him the “Butcher of Blaviken”, even though it wasn't as if, in his own mind, he was undeserving of the title by any means. He saw an idiot who wanted to “relieve” him of the title he deserved so aptly.

He saw an idiot who presented himself so fearlessly to his captors, mouthing off and trying to defend himself, his lute, and - as much as it still confused him - Geralt; an idiot who the Witcher tried to convince the elves to spare, if nothing else, because he absolutely refused to allow this idiot to die because he was so much of an idiot that he would defend a Witcher - a _murderer._

He saw an idiot who, after he experienced the dangers of traveling alongside a Witcher firsthand, became even _more_ hard set in his decision to travel with him and change his reputation for the better.

He saw an idiot who, as he started singing “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” for the first time, actually had a voice that was… wonderful. Like rain on a summer night, soothing him when the rest of the world failed to.

He saw an idiot whose chestnut hair reflected the sunlight immaculately. An idiot whose scent - honey and lavender - he couldn’t get enough of. An idiot whose laugh he could listen to forever and whose cornflower blue eyes he always got lost in and whose face he just wanted to pepper with kisses and _fuck he was in love with the idiot._

(Geralt never actually found out Jaskier’s name until about a week later, when he recounted a rather animosity-ridden conversation with some… Gall O'marks? Yeah, he figured that must’ve been it.)

(He still had no idea that his full name was Julian Alfred Pankratz.)

That’s why Jaskier had to be alive. He meant too much to Geralt to die like this. The Witcher didn’t try so damn hard to convince Jaskier not to kill himself, only for the bard to push himself to death while Geralt could’ve prevented it. No. No. That couldn’t have happened. It _had_ to have not happened. That’s all he told himself; that’s all he _could_ tell himself.

_Pulse. Pulse. Find a fucking pulse._

Jaskier’s head lolled back as far as his neck would allow. Geralt moved his arm, instead using his knee to support Jaskier’s back as he instead used that arm to support his neck. Cradling the back of his head in one hand, he used the other to feel for a heartbeat, his own pounding in his ear.

Thank fuck. He found one. A steady one, too.

Geralt sighed in what was almost relief.

But he wasn’t relieved. He wouldn’t be relieved until Jaskier was awake.

And he wasn’t fucking awake yet.

And Geralt still had no clue if he would ever be again.

Deep down, Geralt knew what he was about to do wouldn’t work, but that didn’t stop him from lightly tapping Jaskier’s cheek in a futile attempt to revive him.

“Jaskier.” He said his name much more desperately than he would ever like to admit. “Jaskier!”

It was of no use; Jaskier had completely passed out. His face was a ghostly pale, providing a disturbing contrast to the blackness of that already plenty disturbing thread that kept his lips shut. Geralt knew that, aside from himself, that damn thread was the cause of all this pain that Jaskier was going through, and he was so furious at it that if it weren’t for how the much act would’ve hurt Jaskier, he would’ve just ripped the damn thread out himself.

As it was, Geralt hissed a swear under his breath - there was no reason to do so in such a repressed manner, seeing as the only conscious being around him was a concerned Roach - and fought mental-tooth and mental-nail to shove his worried thoughts aside as he figured out what to do.

The best - well, really, the _only_ course of action, he realized, was to just keep riding until they found a town or something. He needed a healer. Or bed rest. Or water - or - or - _fuck, why would Jaskier push himself so -_

Geralt shook his head and lifted Jaskier up, shoving his frantic thoughts aside as he prioritized helping the bard in his arms. He could ask him, very gently and tentatively, why the _fucking hell_ he pushed himself so hard as soon as he wasn’t starving and extremely dehydrated.

Because she was a very good horse, Roach knew exactly what her rider needed from her and knelt to make it easier for Geralt to put Jaskier’s body on her back before mounting her himself, keeping Jaskier in front of him so he could keep the bard’s body steady. Because she was also a very strong horse, Geralt knew it wouldn’t hurt her to have Jaskier’s weight on her along with his own, but he still gave her a few pats of encouragement and made a mental note to buy her an extra apple when they made it to the nearest town and got Jaskier help.

_Ride to the nearest town. Get Jaskier help. Get supplies. Get an apple for Roach._

That was the plan.

Using one hand to hold one Roach’s reins, Geralt wrapped the other around Jaskier’s waist. With the bard’s back against the Witcher’s chest, he realized that every time he held Jaskier close in the past day, it was because something was horribly wrong.

The only reason he walked out of that cabin with his hand around Jaskier’s waist was because he was so shaken by what he had gone through at the hands of Arachnir that he could hardly walk without Geralt’s support.

Embracing Jaskier in his arms in that forest last night, soothing him as best he could as the bard cried stifled sobs into his chest - that embrace only happened because his fucking _suicide attempt_ had just been averted. Jaskier was in the most vulnerable state Geralt had ever seen him in; an integral part of his identity - not just as a musician, but as a fucking _person_ \- was ripped away. He was made to endure horrific, dehumanizing torture that he saw such little hope in recovery from it that he nearly took his own life. That was hardly the most ideal circumstance for embracing someone.

Carrying him back to camp so delicately and laying with him for the rest of the night… Geralt knew those things wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the horrible state he was in; if Jaskier was in better circumstances, Geralt assumed he would've never wanted that comfort from him. Who would've? Who would ever want that comfort from a butcher?

(Little did he know that even in the best of circumstances, Geralt was the only person Jaskier wanted that kind of comfort from, and words couldn’t describe how much he wanted it.)

Even now, in this very moment, Geralt wasn’t holding him close out of simple desire to do so; it was only happening because Jaskier fell unconscious and was incapable of keeping himself upright due to that.

As Geralt felt Jaskier’s deep breaths against his arm - _yes, good, please, please just keep breathing -_ he could only hope that one day, Jaskier would be held close and embraced not out of necessity or to comfort him after something horrible, but simply out of sheer desire - for no other reason than that he simply wanted to, and that it would make him happier than he already was, and he’d be able to smile the brightest, most joyful smile when it happened. He hoped happiness would radiate from that smile like sunlight, no longer hindered by the horrible, deplorable thread in his lips.

More than anything, he hoped that whoever shared that embrace with Jaskier would be better than the Witcher himself.

He kept this in the back of his mind as he rode to the nearest town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this update was a bit short - especially after a month w/o updating - but again, this was part of an in-progress draft for another, MUCH LARGER chapter (over 10k words atm!!), and hopefully, I'll be able to get that put up - or at least some of it - by next week!  
> Thanks for reading and keeping up with this! Also, feel free to check out my tumblr @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account <3


	11. Reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the truth of Jaskier's insecurities is laid bare, Geralt takes it upon himself to reassure the frightened, silenced lark of his worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! Now that Geralt's flashback is over, we're back at the inn! Woohoo.  
> Also, from what I hear, it's International Whump Day? What a coincidental day to update!  
> (I seriously didn't intend this lol 😆)  
> No major TWs for this chapter - hope you like it! :)

Geralt didn’t realize he trailed off; it took Jaskier tugging on the Witcher’s sleeve for him to come back to the present.

_When you collapsed in my arms…_

Yes, that’s the last thing he said, but how could he finish that sentence? The terror he felt when it happened… the moment he was pulled back to the instant Jaskier fell against his chest... how could he put the fear he felt into words? Even if he _could_ put it into words, how could he say those words to Jaskier, who was already upset enough?

As the lark’s cornflower eyes looked into Geralt’s, brows furrowed as he searched those amber mysteries for some sort of answer, the Witcher came to the conclusion that now was far from the right time to explain what happened in Blaviken, and maybe that so-called “right time” would never come. Still, he couldn’t just brush this off; he wanted to give Jaskier some sort of answer, however vague.

“...It reminded me of something I’d rather forget.” he finally told Jaskier with a sigh, “I hadn’t been that scared since… well, since last night.”

It took but a second for upturned eyebrows to replace furrowed ones as Jaskier pulled his hand away, almost as if he didn’t feel like he deserved to touch Geralt.

(In truth, that’s exactly how he felt.)

As Jaskier lowered his head and turned his gaze away, Geralt knew, even though he didn’t write one out, that there was an apology in those eyes. Dishearteningly, this was proven when he showed the Witcher that page he’d written in before - the one filled with apologies. He pointed at those two words - _I’m sorry._ \- as if it would’ve just been redundant to rewrite them.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Geralt tried to convince the lark who was tightly hugging his knees again. “Just… please, tal-”

He stopped himself as soon as the word “talk” started to leave his lips, but he still noticed Jaskier glance at him for just a fraction of a second, almost as if he was judging the Witcher’s poor word choice.

(He very well might’ve judged him, if it weren’t for how heavily he was judging himself at the moment.)

Geralt cursed internally; he was the only one out of the two of them that could talk right now, and yet he was still absolute shit when it came to talking. How he managed to get through to Jaskier the night before was nothing short of a miracle, but would Destiny allow for another miracle today in giving the Witcher another chance to convey heartfelt eloquence?

Nope.

“I mean…” Geralt sighed. “What happened, Jaskier? I told you it was a bad idea to go on foot, but you insisted. You hadn’t had any food or water since yesterday. This… things could’ve gone worse than this. You could’ve gotten sick. If your nose gets stuffed up to the point where you can’t breathe through it, or you get nauseous…”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence; he knew he made his point when Jaskier shuddered, still keeping his head down. The Witcher leaned forward and turned his head to face Jaskier, hoping that putting himself directly in the bard’s line of sight would encourage him to look at him.

“You don’t need to keep apologizing, just… please, Jaskier. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Jaskier huffed through his nose. Geralt immediately found the fault in his words.

“I know there’s a lot you haven’t been able to tell me, but… Jaskier, you’ve gone through hell, and I can’t help you get through this if I don’t know what’s wrong. Whatever reason you had for pushing yourself as hard as you did, please just tell me.”

Jaskier only lifted his head a bit, but it was enough for Geralt to see him slowly draw his eyes up to look into the Witcher’s. He looked like a kicked puppy, looking up at Geralt with those eyes - just another moment, just like countless others in the past day, when looking at the bard made his heart hurt.

Jaskier sighed through his nose and picked up his journal again, taking his new quill off the nightstand and dipping it in the little inkwell beside it. Geralt sat back in his chair, somewhat satisfied that he’d get some sort of answer.

He waited for a minute; unable to glance at the paper even if he wanted to - which he didn’t - as Jaskier propped it up against his legs and hid it from Geralt’s view. Whether this was intentional or inadvertent, the Witcher was unsure, and it didn’t matter to him; if Jaskier wanted him to see what he was writing, he’d let him know. To Geralt, it looked like Jaskier spent more time thinking about what he was going to write than actually writing, but, then again, such was the nature of writing. So, he waited. He never pressed Jaskier for information, or rushed him, or tried to peek at what he was writing, he only waited.

Finally, Jaskier showed him the page.

_I didn’t want to exhaust Roach. I knew that the two of us being on her could’ve hurt her, especially after she already had to carry the both of us yesterday when she rode away from that cabin, so I wanted to carry my own weight. I thought I would be able to handle it, but I was wrong. I just didn’t want to be dead weight._

Dead weight? What was he going on about? Geralt didn’t understand. He did all this, even going so far as to push himself to the point of collapsing, so it would be easier on Roach?

“Roach is one of the strongest horses I’ve ever had. She would’ve been able to handle your weight just fine.” Geralt tried to reassure him. “She supported your weight with no problem as we rode here. Even if she did get tired from the both of us, I would’ve just hopped off and let you stay on her-”

Jaskier started shaking his head; Geralt was confused as to why he did until he started writing again. It wasn’t like before - calm and thoughtful, thinking through every word before he wrote it - but it was erratic, as if he was desperate to get some kind of message across, leaving eloquence and pondering the right word behind.

_I WOULDN’T WANT YOU TO DO THAT EITHER._

“Then what _would_ you want?” Geralt asked. He furrowed his brows as Jaskier still held the quill, unsure of what to write.

“I… fuck, Jaskier, you don’t-”

He shook his head at the absurdity of what he was about to say.

“You don’t think you’re some kind of burden, do you?”

That was it. That word. _Burden._ He hit the nail right on the fucking head.

Jaskier relaxed his hand, closed his eyes, and lifted his head before he took a deep breath through his nose and looked Geralt in the eye again. The answer to that question lied in his exhausted, vulnerable eyes.

In that moment, Geralt realized his question wasn't absurd at all.

In some respects, everything started to fall into place in the Witcher’s mind, and with every piece that fell into place, another invisible knife went through him. This wasn’t just about Roach - it was about insecurity. Deep, deep insecurity that plagued Jaskier’s mind ever since Arachnir got his hands on him. Gods, Geralt wished he had broken every finger on those hands, one by fucking one.

Or… was this from before?

What if this horrible, horrible situation wasn’t just giving Jaskier new insecurities and anxieties, but it was also worsening the ones that were already there?

Still, there was still so much Geralt _didn’t_ understand. Jaskier, who always treated his own presence as if it were a gift to those around him, thought he was a burden? He couldn’t imagine it.

What’s worse, he didn’t have to.

“Jaskier…” the Witcher sighed.

The lark sagged his shoulders and hung his head, exhaling deeply and shakily through his nose as the truth of his insecurity was laid bare.

He scribbled down a sentence and held the journal up to Geralt with one hand, keeping his head down and, as if to further avoid looking at the Witcher, looking to the left.

_I’ve done nothing but worry you and make things harder for you ever since this happened._

Before the Witcher could respond, he put the journal back in his lap and wrote a few more sentences.

_I was angry at you for no good reason, and I made you think I hated you. Even after that, you were still so kind to me, even though I did nothing to deserve it, and all I did in return was terrify you by nearly attempting to take my own life. Then, I asked you to stay so close to me the whole night, even though you must’ve hated it._

Geralt furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head a bit as he read. He - he didn’t know how to dispute any of this. He actually quite liked being so close to Jaskier the night before; in a perfect world, they would’ve spent every night like that (without the thread in his mouth and averted suicide attempts). As it was, he read in stunned silence, trying his best to comprehend what Jaskier was saying.

Jaskier pulled the journal back again and wrote another sentence.

_And… and you had to spend so much of your coin that you worked so hard to earn on expensive things to try to accommodate me._

And another.

_And - and I didn’t want you to have to do that. That’s why I asked you if you could try to take these fucking stitches out, but it didn’t work, and your blade broke._

Another. His hand was shaking a bit now, making it a bit harder for Geralt to follow the words with his eyes.

_I’m the reason something of yours is broken - just like me._

“Jaskier, I-”

He ripped the journal out of the Witcher’s sight and frantically wrote once again. Geralt wanted to interrupt, to try to convince Jaskier that these insecurities - these thoughts of being a burden - deserved no place in his sweet, lovely head, but he waited. As the lark knew no kind of sign language yet, the pen and paper was his most effective way of communicating right now, so the Witcher would wait and give him the chance to utilize it to the best of his ability.

And that’s what Jaskier did. Ripping the page out this time, filled on both sides as it was, he all but shoved it in Geralt’s face.

_I already felt like enough of a burden before. To be an actual, literal, physical burden to Roach was too much. I couldn’t do it. I thought that for once, I’d make things easier by carrying my own weight, and it didn’t work. I fucked up, and I made it worse. I’m sorry._

Despite how Jaskier’s trembling hand slowed Geralt’s reading, he did manage to get through the paragraph, and every word the poor lark wrote chipped away at his heart. He drew his eyes away from the page to Jaskier, allowing his furrowed eyebrows to upturn as he looked at him.

Jaskier’s own eyes, two cornflower-tinted windows into the lark’s vulnerability, glistened as they looked into Geralt’s. As they blinked excessively. As his eyebrows contorted into an upturn position like the Witcher’s own. As his lower lip trembled as much as those stitches would allow.

“Jaskier…” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jaskier shook his head and pulled his outstretched arm back, crumpling the page in his fist as he pressed the bases of both his hands to his eyes. He continued to shake his head, taking deep, shaky breaths through his nose as he pressed his threaded lips together as tightly as he could to keep from tearing the punctures by grimacing.

He hated crying like this.

It was so suffocating. It felt like he couldn’t even focus on being upset; like he just had to focus on breathing and keeping his jaw shut. When he cried during the stitching and right after it was done, when he started crying again after realizing Arachnir was dead, when he cried after Geralt talked him down from his attempt - every time, he had to keep himself from grimacing and pulling at the thread, and from sobbing so much that he couldn’t get enough air, and from irritating his nose to the point where he couldn’t breathe through it.

That was why, even now, he had no idea of the tender pet names Geralt called him last night as he cried into the Witcher’s chest, nor did he have any knowledge of the kiss he planted atop his head. In those moments, he was just trying to figure out how hard he could cry while not suffocating or mutilating himself.

This was one of the worst parts of the damned stitches that threaded his lips together; he couldn’t even properly express how much they hurt him. No matter how badly he just wanted to let those tears stream down his face without restraint and sob his lungs out and scream until his throat was raw… he couldn’t. His ability to express his anguish was hindered so drastically that he even had to suppress how hard he cried. Losing his voice - what he built his entire life and profession around, the ability to eat or drink without shoving a tube between the gaps in the thread, and having to go so far as to clamp his jaw shut when he fucking yawned… as if that wasn’t horrible enough, he couldn’t even cry like he normally would. Every person - every fucking human being - deserved such a basic way of expressing their pain.

And, like so many other things, this was taken from him.

Geralt… he had no clue what to say. He kept trying to think of _something_ that would console the poor lark, but every word he thought of died on his tongue as he watched Jaskier press his hands to his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep from crying. Seeing the poor flower go through so much emotional pain - as if the physical pain he endured wasn’t horrible enough - felt like a monster reached into his chest and sunk it’s claws into his heart.

It was starting to sink in, how deeply this affected Jaskier - how it would affect him for a very, very long time. He… he was tortured _._ He was kidnapped, tied down, and brutally _tortured -_ forced to sit there and do nothing but endure the agonizing process of his mouth being sewn shut - of what he loved most getting ripped away from him. One night of closeness - again, he absolutely _refused_ to admit he cuddled Jaskier - wouldn’t just erase the horrible effects it had on his psyche.

But this wasn’t the time to just sit there and pity the bard; now that he knew the truth about how Jaskier felt, it was time for Geralt to be there for him. Last night, when he was talking Jaskier down from his attempt, he promised that he’d be anyone Jaskier needed him to be, and right now, he needed someone that would tell him these things - these ridiculous notions of him being some kind of burden - were as far from the truth as the night was from day.

But how could he?

How could he convince Jaskier he wasn’t a burden, especially since most of the people the Witcher met did nothing but make it very clear that he was, in fact, unwanted? He could probably count on one hand the people who actually cared about his presence, but three of them were other Witchers - which didn’t give way for very much in the “heartfelt” category, even though they were all leagues better with feelings than he was (except maybe Lambert) - and the other was right in front of him, deluded by insecurity into thinking he was a burden. Jaskier was always the one who most earnestly tried to assure him that he was wanted, and Geralt wished he was a fraction as good with kind words as Jaskier was, but he wasn’t.

So, what could he say?

Well, start with the obvious.

“You’re not a burden, Jaskier.”

He took his hands off his eyes, puffy but no longer shimmering, only to hug his knees closer and hang his head lower.

Well, that didn’t work.

Geralt realized something; this situation wasn’t as drastic as that of last night, so there was a chance that trying to use logic and reason to debunk Jaskier’s insecurities would actually work well in helping him.

So, that’s what he decided to do. He’d take all the things he expressed insecurity over, and, bit by bit, he’d reassure Jaskier that those insecurities were merely products of anxiety that held very little truth, if any.

He’d try his damndest, anyway.

“You haven’t... “done nothing but make things harder for me ever since this happened.”” He started with the first thing Jaskier wrote after his insecurities were made clear, trying to remember the bard’s specific wording so he could debunk this as best he could. “You were tortured. I could never fault you for that. You didn’t make anything harder by being subjected to what that spider put you through.” He paused to consider another point. “Even if you somehow _did_ make things harder, I’m used to things being hard. It wouldn’t make much of a difference. I probably wouldn’t even know.”

He didn’t get much of a response, but Jaskier didn’t make any indication of wanting him to stop either, so he continued.

“You had every right to be angry with me last night, and even if you did hate me, I don’t think I would’ve blamed you. This all could’ve been avoided if I listened to you and didn’t leave you by yourself when I went into that cave. Anything that wasn’t the spider’s fault was mine. That’s how I see it.”

Jaskier lifted his head a bit and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Geralt was ready to stop, taking that to mean Jaskier didn’t want to hear anymore of this, but he made eye contact with Geralt and tilted his head a bit, nonverbally encouraging the Witcher to go on. There was still skepticism in his gaze, but making eye contact and being urged to elaborate, even if it was just with a look… It meant his words were, to some extent, getting through to Jaskier.

“Of course I was still kind to you.” He continued to the next issue expressed in his writings - the statement that he still showed kindness to Jaskier, even though he felt like he didn’t deserve it. “You went through hell. I couldn’t _not_ be. At least, I couldn’t not try. You deserved that much, at least. And as far as spending last night like that…” He raised his eyebrows a bit as he tilted his head, looking up as if to recollect the memory of that… _closeness._ “...I didn’t hate it. It… it was fine.”

A rose-pink tint spread across Jaskier’s cheeks as his eyes widened; the bard averted his gaze as if he suddenly became very interested in a particular fold in the bedsheet.

Clearly, he wasn’t ready to unpack that.

Geralt wasn’t either.

He moved on.

“I would’ve had to make a stop at a marketplace sometime in the next few days for new supplies, anyway. It wasn’t any trouble. You deserve to be accommodated for, just like any other travel companion, and if that means buying extra supplies so you can eat properly, then so be it.”

Jaskier, having turned his gaze back to Geralt after he moved on from the subject of their night-long embrace, nodded a tiny nod. Good.

Geralt tilted his head a bit, as if he found a minor error in his own words.

“I don’t even think it’s extra supplies, really - it’s just supplies. Just like what I’d use to clean my swords, or care for Roach, or anything else we’d need to travel with. I said it before, Jaskier - it’s not a burden to get you the things that you need.” he assured.

Jaskier nodded again at what the Witcher was saying, skepticism slowly leaving his gaze. Geralt was getting through to him.

 _Hm._ he thought. _I’m getting better at this._

“And that blade I used, the one that broke… I have plenty of them.” he continued, “They’re cheap. That’s why I stopped you from using your dagger. I figured that if that thread was as unbreakable as you thought, it would be better to use one of those. More disposable. No trouble losing one, really.”

Geralt’s heart sank as he remembered the next thing Jaskier wrote.

_I’m the reason something of yours is broken - just like me._

He still wasn’t sure what to say to that. Honestly, he didn’t want to say _anything_ to that, but in order to keep getting through to Jaskier, Geralt thought he needed to address _every_ part of what Jaskier wrote.

Jaskier’s own gaze fell back to the bed sheet, as if he knew the next thing Geralt was going to try to reassure him about.

“I… I’m sorry you feel broken, Jaskier.”

Well, he didn’t expect that.

He expected Geralt to try to reason him into not feeling like this, or to tell him all the reasons why he shouldn’t feel like a burden as if that was a choice he was consciously making. Despite his worries that the Witcher would inadvertently rub a wine stain into a rug, so to speak - that he’d try to make him feel better, but by simply trying to talk to him on that topic, he’d actually make it worse - he still returned his gaze to the Witcher. It was just like when he tried to take out the stitches, or when he helped Jaskier drink water through that fucking funnel; he trusted Geralt more than he could ever be nervous about how Geralt would help him.

“You don’t deserve to be made to feel this way.” Geralt kept going. “You didn’t deserve any of this. You deserve to keep singing, and talking, and laughing, and smiling.”

Fuck, Geralt missed his smile, and the sunshine that would bubble up from his throat when he laughed. He missed it so much already. He knew he couldn’t possibly miss it nearly as much as Jaskier, but his point still stood.

“You deserve so much better than this, and… and I’m sorry this happened to you. If there was _anything_ I could do to reverse this right now - to go back and stay the hell out of that cave, or stop myself from killing that spider, or… or turn down his bullshit contract, I’d do it.”

Jaskier stopped hugging his knees close to his chest, letting his legs stretch just a bit and crossing his arms atop his knees instead, and continued to keep eye contact with Geralt, despite the sadness that crept into his eyes.

“...But I don’t see you as a broken person. Or a burden.” the Witcher continued, “I think you went through torture only befitting for the scum of the earth, and the fact that you’re still here makes you a million times braver than that spider, or anyone else who would try to hurt you.”

Jaskier’s gaze faltered for but a fraction of a second. They both knew how close Jaskier came to not being there.

“I think what you went through… it’s skewing your judgement. Making you think you’re a burden, or you’re upsetting me when you’re not. Or that you’re undeserving of kindness when you deserve every pleasant thing the world can offer.”

Surprise gradually started to replace the sadness that pooled in Jaskier’s eyes. As much of a relief as it was, it was also heartbreaking - it was almost like he was surprised that Geralt would disagree so adamantly about him being an inconvenience, or this was the first time anyone told Jaskier he deserved so many good things. The latter made Geralt certainly feel… some kind of way. Was it true? Had no one ever told Jaskier he deserved the world? Was Geralt the first to do so?

...Outrageous.

He leaned forward and lifted his arm, slowly bringing his hand up to Jaskier’s forehead. Gently - so, so gently - he swept a few locks of his hair off Jaskier’s forehead. The lark followed the Witcher’s movements with his eyes almost cautiously, for he trusted Geralt too much to be truly cautious, especially of a touch so soft.

“If I could take those thoughts out of your head - about you being a burden… or broken… or an inconvenience…”

Geralt’s fingers lingered for a moment, touching Jaskier’s temple in an impossibly gentle way. Jaskier let him.

“...You have no idea what I would give to do that.”

Geralt took his hand away from Jaskier’s temple. No. Too intimate. Instead, he placed his hand on Jaskier’s upper arm, which was easy to do as the bard’s elbows were still resting atop his knees, leaving his upper arm perfectly horizontal.

“Jaskier… you know I don’t waste time on situations I don’t think are worth my time.”

It was a statement, not a question. Still, Jaskier nodded.

“I’m not here because I feel indebted, or because I feel like I owe it to you to stay here after what I’ve caused, or because you’re some… some kind of burden for me to carry.”

“I’m doing this because you’re…” The words caught in his throat. These words - these soft, emotional words - were still so hard to say, but he’d say them to Jaskier. He’d say whatever he needed to say for Jaskier to understand how much he meant to the Witcher, insecurity be damned.

Well, there were three words that he still held back.

Yes. _Those_ three words.

“...Because _you’re important to me_ , and after everything you’ve gone through, I want to be here for you.”

Geralt rubbed a small spot on Jaskier’s tunic with his thumb.

“I know this… these stitches… they’ve taken a toll on you. On your mental state. If it’s too hard to trust yourself to recognize your worth right now, then trust me when I say you’re not a burden, Jaskier. Please.”

The Witcher may have been… less-than-apt when it came to understanding emotions (both those of other people and his own), but it wasn’t as if he was clueless about them. He knew this wouldn’t magically make Jaskier’s insecurity go away, just like how none of the times Jaskier tried to reassure Geralt in the past made his own turmoil disappear. That wasn’t his objective; he was doing this to let Jaskier know that no matter how he felt about himself, he could rely on the fact that the Witcher would be there for him.

“Because you’re not. Your existence - you being in need of help right now - isn’t a burden to me, and there’s nothing you could do to change my mind.” he vowed as he looked into Jaskier’s eyes.

“I hope that means something, Jaskier.”

Jaskier took his left hand off his right elbow and placed it over Geralt’s hand.

Even if he didn’t nod, the Witcher knew, just by the look in his eyes, it _did_ mean something.

Those eyes still showed a heart-wrenching amount of vulnerability, but in them - in those little pockets of the ocean, like that coast he used to talk about so much - Geralt could see… understanding.

He knew it would take a lot more than this for Jaskier to stop seeing himself as a burden, but this was a start.

In a perfect world, he would just hold Jaskier in his arms to shield him from all the horrible things that hurt him. In a perfect world, some mage or the like would burst through the door right that second with a way to take out the thread in Jaskier’s mouth. In a perfect world, he’d be able to take all those ugly, horrible thoughts out of Jaskier’s head with nothing but a kiss to his forehead.

Yes, in a perfect world… a world where Jaskier returned Geralt’s feelings…

 _Fuck._ Geralt thought. _Don’t delude yourself._

Jaskier broke eye contact, just so he could close his eyes and roll his head to the right, resting his cheek against his own shoulder. He opened his eyes after a moment, but instead of looking at Geralt again, he just looked ahead, almost absentmindedly. But only a fool would think his mind was absent. Still, he looked comfortable - at least, as close as he’d gotten to “comfortable” since before that damn fluke of a contract. A little victory, perhaps.

“Hmm…”

Geralt looked at Jaskier with uncharacteristic softness. His chestnut hair was just a few inches away from the Witcher’s fingertips, which were still covered by Jaskier’s hand. Geralt just wanted to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and tell him how okay things would be soon, but he had no clue when - or even if - things would be okay. Even if he did know those things, the intimacy of playing with his hair like that was too much for now, in Geralt’s eyes.

Still, there was actually something else he wanted to say - an apology. It wasn’t as grave and profuse as the ones he made the night before, but it was still one he felt like he should say. Looking at the bard in this state… it felt wrong not to say it.

So, he did.

“I didn’t mean what I said yesterday. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier picked his head up and tilted it to the left as he looked at Geralt with furrowed eyebrows and no clue what he was talking about.

When Geralt saw this, he sighed. Did Jaskier already forget how innocently - well, as innocent as things could be around the Witcher - that day started? Did the gravity of the events of that afternoon already wipe from Jaskier’s mind the statement Geralt made that, while it was a trivial little jest at the time, more-or-less haunted him now?

...Of course. He shouldn't have expected Jaskier to remember something so menial; compared to what happened only minutes later, it was like a single grain of sand on a beach - miniscule, irrelevant.  
“I mean… what I said at that cave, before I headed down. When you told me it was a bad idea to go down there and leave you by yourself, I said…” He recollected it to the best of his ability in order to recite his words as best he could. “If there was actually a giant spider that found you while I was down there, you could sing it to sleep, and…” He shot his gaze down as if he just found an extremely interesting wrinkle in Jaskier’s sheet, but nonetheless continued. “...Depending on how bad it’s hearing was, it might actually like your voice.”

Jaskier nodded a few times as he recollected the memory. It was so simple, yesterday morning. His singing and blathering, his Witcher teasing him about his voice. So tragically innocuous, as if - no, _because_ neither of them had any idea how quickly things would change; how quickly the subject of such simple activities would be lost.

“I didn’t mean it. All the shit I used to say about your voice. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.” Geralt admitted, “I almost feel like I shouldn’t be saying this now, but… I always did like your voice.”

Jaskier tilted his head down and to the left in a quick swoop. Geralt could tell, even without the huff through his nose, that Jaskier was thinking something along the lines of, _“I knew it.”_ He took his hand off of Geralt’s and patted around for his journal. The Witcher, having placed the book and quill onto the nightstand when Jaskier had to stop himself from crying, took his hand off Jaskier’s arm - he knew it would be awkward to write like that - and handed the two things to him.

Jaskier inked the quill and scribbled something down, shaking his head almost as if he were amused. Flipping the journal around, he turned his head in Geralt’s direction and raised his eyebrows as he stared at him.

 _So, THIS is what it took for you to admit you like my singing?_ _REALLY_ _?_

Geralt spared a huff through his nose as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Hmm. These are truly dire straits, Jaskier.”

Aghast, Jaskier shook his head, putting his hand on his chest and acting as if his whole body seemed to take a toll from such an incredulous statement.

The smile tugging at the Witcher’s lips grew insistent, and despite how hard he tried, Geralt couldn’t resist it. He was relieved to see Jaskier’s dramatics make a return, however brief it would be. It was a sign that a little bit of yesterday’s Jaskier was still there.

Of course, the dramatics left as soon as they arrived. Jaskier looked down with heavy eyes for a moment before he wrote down something else.

_Well… he really didn’t like my voice._

Geralt’s own gaze grew heavy as he read, as did his heart. There was no need to specify who _he_ was.

He wrote again, taking a few pauses as he did to remember what happened as best he could without forcing himself to relive that afternoon.

_One of the last things I did before he did this to me was sing._

Geralt nodded in understanding as he read. The image of his sweet lark - no, no, not his - that sweet lark belting his lungs out before he no longer could… Geralt wanted to cry.

“Hmm…” He pondered for a moment on whether or not he should ask, but he decided he would. “Which song? That fishmonger one you were working on?”

Jaskier shook his head with a little huff through his nose, his eyes heavy with recollection.

He started humming.

Geralt’s heart all but leaped through his chest when he heard the notes emit from behind Jaskier’s closed lips, the Witcher’s own lips slightly parted as his eyebrows raised. Jaskier’s voice… it already felt like it had been years - although it was only a day - since he intentionally used his voice in a musical way. It reminded Geralt that Jaskier’s voice wasn’t lost; it was still there, just… difficult to use. Very, very difficult.

But as much as the fact that Jaskier was humming made Geralt’s heart soar, the realization of _what_ Jaskier was humming only served to make his heart sore.

_Toss a coin to your Witcher_

_Oh valley of plenty_

_Oh valley of plenty_

...Fuck.

It already hurt Geralt to know that singing was one of the last things Jaskier did before this happened, but singing _that_ song? The one about how amazing the Witcher supposedly was? The one praising a monster - a _butcher_?

The words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat as his eyes shimmered.

“...Hmm.”

Jaskier wrote again.

_I… I sang the whole thing. Until my voice was raw. I think it pissed him off._

He turned the book back to himself, wrote something else, and turned it back around again, this time with a quirked eyebrow.

_Which is strange… considering he hummed it while he knocked me out._

Geralt nodded with a hum.

“Maybe it was so you knew he was doing it to get to me.” He suggested, trying to ignore the fury that boiled inside him as he thought of what Jaskier was implying. “Was…”

He stumbled for the right words like a linguistic drunkard.

“Was that why he did this to you? Because you sang?”

Jaskier thought for a moment before shaking his head and writing again. A few scribbles could be heard before he showed Geralt.

_No, I don’t think that’s why. At least, it’s not the main reason._

After Geralt was finished reading, he eyed Jaskier empathetically, somehow both silently encouraging Jaskier to elaborate and telling him it was okay if he chose not to.

Jaskier turned his book back around and chose to elaborate.

_It was because I defended you._

An arrow of guilt shot through Geralt’s heart.

“What?”

It was the only word he could say. He barely even realized he said it, the syllable falling through his lips in a whisper.

He didn’t mean he actually wanted Jaskier to elaborate; if that was all Jaskier wanted to say, Geralt would've been totally fine with that decision. The last thing he would’ve wanted was for Jaskier to relive his torture.

Still, Jaskier elaborated.

Still, Geralt waited, never trying to read Jaskier’s words before he was ready to reveal them.

Five whole minutes of scribbling passed until he finally did just that.

_He said you were a butcher and a monster who didn’t deserve any of his coin. I spat in his face and told him he was wrong. You get up every day and risk your life for thankless, disgusting humans who hate your guts, and he had the nerve to insult you - to claim you have some sort of lack of humanity._

_Well, it’s bullshit, and that’s what I told him._

_I said you’ve devoted yourself to helping people, while he’s done nothing but hurt people. I told him that the two of you may be mutants, but only one of you is a monster, and it’s not you. I think that’s the main reason why he did this, honestly. He got pissed and stormed out, and that’s when I started singing. Then, he came back in with the needle. I don’t think I need to say what happened after that._

If that first sentence - _It was because I defended you._ \- was an arrow shooting through the Witcher’s heart, reading this was like said arrow was being slowly, agonizingly pulled out, arrowhead and all ripping back through him.

It put into perspective how little about the situation he actually knew, compared to what Jaskier really experienced. Truly, all he knew was what he observed for himself when he found Jaskier, what he learned in the few minutes he interacted with Arachnir, and what Jaskier himself told him. It wasn’t as if he was in the room where it happened, and he knew that, but every new piece of information Jaskier gave him was like a slap to the face and a stab in the heart.

“Jaskier…” He was just barely above being speechless. “Why?”

Jaskier blinked a few times as if Geralt was being incredulous.

The words streamed from his quill as he wrote out his reasons - his praise for the Witcher that sat at his side, looking ahead as to not violate Jaskier’s privacy by reading his words prematurely.

He all but shoved the book in Geralt’s face.

_Because it’s true! No one should call you a monster, let alone a monster like him! You fight for humans your whole life, risking that very life every single day, even though you know people will still hold you in contempt for no good reason! He was insulting you, and I couldn’t just sit there and let that horseshit slide. What else was I supposed to do, besides defend you?_

“Defend _yourself_ !” Geralt all but snapped, “I told you that if you get captured, stay calm and try to protect yourself - fuck, I specifically said _not_ to aggravate your captors, and you spat in his face? The fuck were you thinking?”

A moment passed, determined scribbles filling the silence.

_I was thinking that he is the last person who should call you a monster - NO ONE should call you a monster!_

“You have no idea how right he is to say that, Jaskier.” He shook his head. He didn’t get it. Why would Jaskier possibly risk his life by mouthing off to his captors to defend Geralt’s honor - his non-existent honor that Jaskier deluded himself into thinking the Witcher had?

Less than a minute passed before Jaskier had a rebuttal.

_I know exactly how right he is - not at all! You’re not a monster, Geralt! Why won’t you just listen to me when I tell you that?_

“BECAUSE I’M THE REASON WHY I CAN’T FUCKING LISTEN TO YOU!” The words poured out before Geralt could refine them in his mind or control his volume so he didn't scream them.

Jaskier flinched and ducked his head, burying it behind his knees.

Geralt froze in horror.

“Fuck, no, Jaskier,” he mumbled, his voice now very, very small, “Jaskier, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I - I - Fuck.” He tentatively reached his hand out, “I’m so sorry-”

As if Jaskier knew Geralt’s hand was as close to the side of his head as it was (he did), he slowly lifted his head and let those calloused fingers brush down his cheek. As much as it stunned the Witcher, he didn’t let that touch be anything but the gentlest he could make it.

As much as Geralt’s heart begged him to keep his hand against Jaskier’s face, he figured Jaskier wanted him to pull away and did so.

As much as Jaskier’s heart begged him to tell Geralt to keep his hand against his face, he figured Geralt wanted to pull away and decided against it.

Jaskier wasn’t angry, or scared, or hurt, he just…

He didn’t understand.

To him, Geralt was everything. Even when he acted as cold and bitter as he did towards the Witcher the night before, that held true.

Geralt was Jaskier’s muse. His light. His warmth. His White Wolf. His _Geralt._

He was a hero, a friend of humanity. He devoted himself to slaying monsters - to _helping people._ How could anyone think he was a monster? How could Arachnir think he was a monster?

How could _Geralt_ think himself a monster?

“I…I was the one that took that spider’s contract. I was the one who left you alone when I headed into the cave, even though you told me it was a bad idea. I was the one who killed that spider before he could reverse this. If I didn’t make any one of those… those idiotic decisions, I’d be listening to you right now.”

Jaskier’s eyes furrowed in confusion, and even though Geralt started to regret his words, it was no good taking them back now. The next best thing to do was clarify what he meant as best and as delicately as he could.

“I mean - fuck, I’d be _listening_ to you. Not just reading off a page. Your voice. Your words.”

_The beautiful way you always sound like you’re following a melody, even when you’re just speaking._

“I’d be listening - _really_ listening - to all of it.”

He hung his head, staring at one spot on Jaskier’s sheet as if he didn’t deserve to look at him (because he didn’t feel like he did).

“You’d be speaking right now if it weren’t for what I did.” he sighed, “You shouldn’t have defended me, Jaskier.”

He heard scribbles - very light, very small scribbles - for a few seconds before Jaskier slid his journal across a few inches of the bed, directly into Geralt’s view.

_So, should I agree with him?_

Geralt lifted his head.

“What?”

He waited a heart-wrenching minute as Jaskier wrote.

_After everything he did to me… am I supposed to think all the things he said - words spoken so proudly from the monster who did this to me, who made sure I can’t say anything proudly anymore - were true?_

Geralt’s heart shattered.

It wasn’t something Jaskier was asking as part of an argument, or something he said with the intention of making Geralt deny and confess a real answer. He had no idea what the “real answer” was, and the look in his eyes made that very clear to Geralt. It was as genuine a question as any simple inquiry he’d asked before, like… 

_“What doublet should I wear today, Geralt?”_

_“Doesn’t matter; maybe pick the darkest one so you’re less of a target. No need for monster bait today.”_

_“Oh, I take it I wont have to worry about that like your last contract?”_

_“I was only ten feet away the entire time. I didn’t let it hurt you, did I?”_

_“No, but being tied to some tree and used as a lure for a wyvern… ‘twas atrocious!”_

_“What’s atrocious is that I ever took that cloth out of your mouth.”_

_“GERALT.”_

_“Hmm.”_

Or… 

_“Should I dress for rain? The clouds look like they’re gathering quite… menacingly.”_

_“What do you think? This weather won’t be kind enough to spare you from a cold. If anything, it may spare me from your voice.”_

_“A simple yes would have sufficed, you brute.”_

_“Hmm.”_

Or… 

_“What sounds better - “stunning” or “riveting”? Thought I’d ask. You are my muse for this piece, after all. Your latest contract is worthy of the finest ballad I can compose!”_

_“The finest ballad you can compose for me is one of complete and utter, blessed silence… but I suppose “riveting” would work. Sounds like Rivia.”_

_“Mm… “Ever so riveting~ Geralt of Rivia~” Geralt, you lyrical genius!”_

_“Hmm.”_

...But those questions were menial; this question was one of the most painful he’d ever been asked.

“Jaskier, _no_ …” Geralt shook his head, desperate for Jaskier not to _ever_ think something so horrible. “Fuck, don’t ever tell yourself that. This wasn’t your fault. You can’t let yourself believe there was even a bit of sense in what he did to you. Never.” His tone was now as serious as stone. “He didn't do this because you said something he didn’t like, or because you sang too much, or… or anything like that. He did this…”

Keeping the bitterness out of his voice was like keeping water out of a pond.

“...Because he was a worthless pile of horseshit, and the fact that he died with the solution to this is the only reason I'm not glad that fucker is gone."

Jaskier nodded along, showing obvious comprehension. Good.

“I…” Geralt’s tone softened once again. “I just don’t think you would’ve defended me if you knew about…”

His lips pressed together to pronounce the letter “B”, but the word died on his tongue as his nerve took a dive. 

“...About what I’ve done before.”

The look in Jaskier’s eyes was a peculiar one to Geralt. No resentment or anger. No desperation for more information. No fear of the Witcher before him.

“Still, I still don’t understand why you defended me, but it was no reason for… for _this._ ” He put his hand over Jaskier’s, the lark having relaxed it palm-down on the bed, just next to his thigh as he crossed his legs. “I’m still so sorry. About all of this. You deserved so much better.”

Jaskier started turning his hand around, still under Geralt’s. Taking that to mean Jaskier didn’t want his hand to be held, Geralt started pulling away…

Only for Jaskier to curl his fingers around Geralt’s. He wasn’t trying to make the Witcher move his hand; he was only turning his own around so he could really hold it.

So, now that he understood what Jaskier truly wanted, he kept his hand where it was. He didn’t think too much of the touch, as his self-loathing outweighed any common sense that would’ve told him this was a kind of affection - one Jaskier only wanted from _him_. How outlandish, it seemed to Geralt. He doubted it beyond doubt.

“Hmm…”

...This was all wrong.

Jaskier was sitting here, still reeling from the horrors he was subjected to, with what he built his entire life around - what made him _Jaskier_ \- brutally sealed away, sewn shut after he so foolishly defended Geralt, even though he was oblivious to the Witcher’s - no, the _Butcher’s_ atrocities; to the truest and most significant reason of all as to why he was seen as a monster. It was wrong. It was fucking _wrong._

Geralt needed to change that; "right time" be damned, he needed Jaskier to know the truth.

He tilted his head and saw Jaskier just kind of… staring at the ground. He looked almost content. Peaceful, even. Geralt hated to ruin that, but he hated even more the thought of Jaskier continuing to defend him from hatred without knowing that hatred’s root.

“...Jaskier?”

Jaskier lifted his head, attentive.

“...Do you know why people call me the Butcher of Blaviken?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked this chapter! Next chapter is going to talk about Renfri (😔) so TW for gore/blood and mentions of rape. I'm fairly sure that after the next one, our boys leave the inn! (Hallelujah!) There may be a short hiatus after chapter 12 though - gotta love school!  
> Also, feel free to find me on tumblr @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account! Have a happy Saturday (or whenever you're reading)! <3


	12. i'm still here, love, like i've always been before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tells Jaskier about his deepest regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a minute, hasn't it? I didn't mean to go so long without updating, but school/personal life have slowed down my progress on this fic, so to speak. I absolutely ADORE this project, but it's not really a good idea to expect quick updates from me right now! Anyway, I hope a 10k+ chapter makes up for my hiatus! Enjoy!

“Jaskier,” Geralt asked, “Do you know why people call me the Butcher of Blaviken?”

Almost perplexed by how the question seemed to come out of nowhere, Jaskier shook his head, pulled his hand away from Geralt’s, and retrieved his journal and quill, having placed both at his side. As he grew accustomed to the routine of waiting and reading and waiting again, Geralt sat back in the wooden chair for a few moments while Jaskier wrote, until… 

_No_ . _I heard people say it a lot, but I don’t think I ever found out why. I did call you that once, though… but that didn’t end well._

When the Witcher got to the end of that last sentence, guilt once again found itself in Geralt’s heart, but it wasn’t like before - piercing, stabbing, agonizing. This was more like… a poke. Guilt poked at Geralt’s heart.

He winced as he remembered gut-punching Jaskier after he used that moniker, somewhat mirroring the way Jaskier raised his eyebrows and averted his eyes down, as if to cringe at that situation without moving his mouth.

“Right… Sorry.” 

He took a breath and was only two seconds away from explaining the story behind that title when Jaskier waved a hand - effectively cutting Geralt off before he even started because it was obvious to the Witcher that he had something important to say, too - and wrote something out.

_Geralt, you don’t have to tell me about that if you don’t want to. Something happened in Blaviken that you regret - that you hate. I figured as much ever since I brought up that name when I followed you out of that tavern. That’s why I haven’t brought it up since then. Honestly, Geralt, the person you were before doesn’t matter; if the person sitting in front of me is authentic in any sense of the word, that’s enough._

_You’re enough._

It was almost comedic to Geralt. Jaskier was the one who, while entirely innocent, had gone through hell, yet here he was trying to console a murderous butcher. He was the one who thought himself a burden, and yet, here he was convincing a monster of it’s worth. Maybe it would’ve been comedic if it weren’t so sad.

“I…” Geralt let out a sigh. “You should know. It feels wrong, knowing you’ve gone through so much because you want me to be seen as a hero. Knowing you lost so much because you wanted to defend my honor - because you don’t know why people are right when they say I’m a monster. It… it’s important to me.”

Jaskier’s gaze was heavy. It broke his heart to see his White Wolf talk so lowly of himself.

Still, he nodded.

With that, Geralt was about to start when Jaskier raised his hand _again_ and wrote something else out.

_If you’re going to tell a long story, maybe it’d be better for you to sit on the bed. You’ve been sitting here as a bedside vigil for hours, except for maybe ten minutes when you went downstairs, and I’m sure that wooden chair has long-since stopped being kind to your lovely bottom._

When he could tell Geralt finished reading - this was made clear by a slightly exasperated look he gave Jaskier at the mention of his bottom - Jaskier leaned forward, pat a spot near the foot of the bed, and sat back again.

“Hmm.”

He got up and sat in the spot Jaskier suggested. Unlike before, when he faced Jaskier’s right side and all the lark had to do to see his face was just turn his head a bit to the right, he was turned in the opposite direction. He now faced the window his back was turned to before, and in order to get a good look at Geralt’s face, Jaskier had to lean extraneously to the right.

He expected this, though. He didn’t just suggest he sat there for the benefit of Geralt’s butt; he knew this story, whatever it was, would be easier for Geralt to tell if he weren’t looking at him.

Truly, for Geralt, it was easier to tell the story this way. Not easy. But easier.

"...Wait."

Jaskier hummed, a little confused.

Geralt brought out a clean rag and poured a little bit of the water from the pitcher into it.

Jaskier was still confused, and that confusion didn't go away until Geralt held it out to him and explained.

"You should dab at the stitches with that while I'm telling you this. Best to keep them as clean as possible until they close up - last thing you need is an infection."

With the rag's purpose clear, Jaskier nodded in complete understanding and took it - brushing fingers with Geralt's palm for a fleeting moment - and kept it against his lips.

There was no backing down now. He knew Jaskier might hate him at the end of this, but at least he’d know the truth about the monster he’d been defending.

So, he began.

“I came to Blaviken to fulfill a contract. Something about a kikimora. Small town. People were nothing exemplary. I went into some shitty pub to find the alderman. Ended up pissing off a lot of people in there just for having the audacity to exist in their presence, I suppose. Not the first pub like that. Think it was well past the hundredth. There was a young woman there - managed to get them off my back and got an ale for me. Her name…”

 _Fuck._ It was so hard. He hadn’t said her name since he left that town, save for when he mumbled it during his Blaviken-ous nightmares. Still, he had to do this. _For Jaskier,_ he told himself, _for Jaskier._ That's why he did most of the things he did in the past day.

“...Her name was Renfri.”

“She was young - about the age you were when I met you - but she knew much more about the horrors of this world than she ever should’ve. Too much. She was a princess… but that life was taken from her.”

_It wasn’t the only life taken from her._

“I ended up finding the alderman’s daughter, Marilka - even younger then Renfri, never left that town, not the nicest to animals - and she ended up bringing me to…” The spit in Geralt’s mouth felt like venom when he thought of him. “...a wizard.”

He paused when he heard a few short scratches of a quill on parchment. Scribble scribble scribble. Jaskier already had input, apparently.

He heard the journal _sliiiide_ across the bed, naturally pulling his gaze and attention towards it. There was one word on the page.

_Stroganoff?_

Geralt, upon remembering the few, fleeting times he mentioned the wizard to Jaskier before, huffed through his nose; here he was, explaining one of the worst experiences of his life, and here Jaskier was, somehow bringing some levity with just one word.

“ _Stregobor._ But that’s close enough.”

Jaskier made a face - as much of a face he could without moving his sewn-up mouth (the punctures of which he was still dabbing at with the wet cloth) very much, at least - and it was clearly the face of someone who just realized they’ve been referring to a person with the wrong name for a long time.

Scribble scribble. Scribble scribble scribble scribble.

_Oh… well, I’ve been getting that wrong for the past few months. Lovely!_

“Don’t worry. It’s not like he deserves to be called the correct name, anyway.”

Scribble scribble... Scribble scribble scribble scribble scribble.

_Right… When you mentioned him before, you didn’t talk about any of… this, but you said you hate him, and he’s like human scum._

“And I’m right.”

Jaskier nodded, dropped the quill and used his now free hand (the other one still in use, dabbing at his mouth) to gesture for him to continue.

“He told me about some prophecy he’d been told. Something about sixty women born on eclipses would bring about the end of days. Apparently, they were harbingers of Lilit’s wrath, or something… shitty prediction. Didn’t rhyme. He had most of those girls killed when he would find them as infants, but... there was one who managed to grow up.”

Scribble scribble.

_Renfri?_

“...Yes.”

“He said that as she grew up, she was… peculiar. Brutal. That she would kill, hurt, and maim even when she was a little girl. One day, he… he sent someone to follow her, but he ended up dead - stabbed with Renfri’s brooch through his ear. He told me that she needed to be killed before she could hurt anyone else - that killing her was “the lesser evil.”

“...Horseshit.”

“Stregobor stole Renfri’s whole life from her, all because of superstition, because he thought her evil for no other reason than the time of her birth. It’s all horseshit, just like the lesser evil, just like him - horseshit.”

“...Renfri found me in the forest later that night, after I left Stregobor’s tower. Turns out, the bastard he sent to follow her raped her and robbed her before letting her go. She was still alive, but her life as a princess was over.”

“She became a bandit out of necessity - out of survival. Stealing. Killing. Gathering a gang of bandits… A few of them were the ones that almost tried to fight me in that pub. Point is, she did whatever she had to in order to survive. I don’t know if she only then started being as brutal as Stregobor claimed she was, or if that was always a part of her… but it didn’t matter. All the while, she planned her revenge against Stregobor. That’s where I came in - well, where she wanted me to come in, anyway.”

“She knew Stregobor told me to kill her, and she wanted me to kill him for her. Another “lesser evil” pointed out to me. I told her that she didn’t have to chase this idea of revenge and let it destroy her; that she could leave Blaviken and start anew. She came to me later and told me she thought about what I said, and that she’d leave Blaviken the next morning. I believed her.”

It was like two hands - one of guilt and one of dread - dragged their fingers up Geralt’s back; the Witcher - the _Butcher_ knew what was coming next. In his mind, he wasn’t just nearing the worst part of the story, but also the end of Jaskier’s respect for him. 

“...Foolish.”

“When I woke up the next morning, I knew she went back to Blaviken to kill Stregobor, and anyone who got in her way. I went back to town to stop her. Her men were there waiting for me. She would've killed innocents if I didn't stop her, but her men refused to back down. So..."

He took a breath, knowing that by the time that breath was gone - used to say he slaughtered, _butchered_ them - Jaskier would probably hate him. Be disgusted by him. Burn all his songs about him at the first chance and leave to either find a cure to his ailment or adjust to a new normal on his own. Still, if that was the choice Jaskier made, Geralt knew he'd have to accept it.

So, there was no point in putting off his words.

"I killed them. Every last one of her men. Impaled a few. Beheaded another. But… all of them. Slaughtered. _Butchered_.”

That last word fell off his tongue like a hundred-pound weight, but the weight of his sins still lay heavy on him, crushing him as he recounted his atrocities to the one person whose l… - _No, don’t delude yourself. He doesn’t love you. He’s not that much of an idiot._ \- whose respect for him was wholly unwavering up until this point.

He stared ahead, not even turning to look at Jaskier. He was… honestly, he was scared. As much as he expected it, he was scared to see the hatred or disgust or fear or… or _whatever_ horrible feeling that would, in his mind, undoubtedly paint Jaskier’s face. He knew he deserved it, but that didn’t mean the thought didn’t gut him.

Speaking of dread, those same fingers that went up Geralt’s back - those guilty, dreading fingers - clawed into his shoulders as a reminder; there were yet still more - still _worse_ things that the Butcher needed to tell Jaskier.

“I heard Marilka scream my name. Renfri had her sword to her throat. I told her to let her go. She said she’d kill her and everyone in the village until Stregobor surrendered.”

His sentences were short and blunt, despite the vividity of the scene in his mind.

“She only let Marilka go so she could direct her sword at me. We both knew that if we went at each other, there was no going back. Only one of us would walk away. She knew that, but I didn’t. I didn’t _let_ myself know that. That’s why she fought as fiercely as she did - she was hellbent on it being her. I still didn’t - I couldn’t accept that - that we wouldn’t both live. I tried… I tried to get her to back down, but… she wouldn’t.”

The ghostly fingers were now talons, ripping into Geralt’s shoulders as shame ran down his back like streams of blood.

“I disarmed her. A last ditch effort to stop her without killing her, At least, I thought I did…”

“...But she still had a dagger.”

“She charged at me again, aiming for my neck… and… and...”

 _Come the fuck on, Geralt._ He told himself. _Get on with it. Spit it the fuck out._

“I killed her.”

The words hung in the air. Truly, he couldn’t encapsulate the weight they held in his mind; the silence between them as metal gutted flesh and Renfri’s breath - fleeting, so fucking fleeting - hitched, the shock in her eyes, the too-strong smell of iron - even without his heightened senses, it would’ve been too much for Geralt, but it was so much fucking worse with them - as blood spilled from the gouge in her neck. He couldn’t capture that with words, and even if he could, he would never subject Jaskier to seeing the horror of that moment as vividly as Geralt did. It was best to be vague.

“...I killed Renfri.” he repeated. He didn’t know why; it wasn’t like he gave Jaskier any opportunity to mishear him. His words, as dreadful as they were, were perfectly clear, and the room was silent, save for the murmur of inngoers downstairs and the pounding of his own heart, hammering against his chest just like on that trail when Jaskier collapsed - just like in that carnage-littered market.

“She collapsed against my chest. I caught her. I knew she was trying to say something, but… nothing came out. She died in my arms.”

“Stregobor only came down to retrieve her body for an autopsy. He had no right to put his hands anywhere near her, after what he did to her. He ruined her life; even if I killed her, I couldn’t let him disgrace her body.”

“But… Stregobor told the townspeople what I did - how I… how I butchered those men. How I… something about massacring innocents under Renfri’s influence. He urged the townspeople to turn against me, and they did. It wasn’t like much of them liked me in the first place, and they have any reason not to hate me, but…”

He could almost hear the screams again. The curses. The swears. The horrible yet apt words hurled at him like daggers - no, like the rocks the townspeople pelted him with.

“I was stoned.”

It hurt. It hurt so much recounting that pain, no matter how much he thought he deserved it. The stones. The vile words. It _hurt._

But that was nothing compared to… 

“Marilka came to the front of the crowd. Tears stained her cheeks. Pain filled her eyes. I knew she saw me as a monster. For good reason, too. Blaviken was all she ever knew, she trusted me, and I covered those streets with blood and gore. No stone that hit me hurt more than seeing how much I hurt her. I wanted to protect her… and Renfri… and everyone who was endangered or hurt because of Stregobor’s horseshit. But… even if I saved her life, I destroyed the only life she knew, so when she told me to leave Blaviken and never come back, I did.”

He lifted his gaze from the floor, sighing in relief when there was no more of the story to tell - no more pain to relive. Still, he didn’t look at Jaskier, deciding to look ahead through the window. The breeze in the trees… the chirping of the birds… the sunlight streaming into the room… he didn’t deserve to be here, taking in such a sight. Not after destroying - after _ending_ so many lives.

Stregobor deserved to die slowly and horribly, a recompense for the lives of all the women he ruined.

Marilka deserved to grow up in a thriving town, never to see bloodied streets, and maybe go out and see the world.

Renfri deserved to live her life without Stregobor living it - she deserved to _live_ her _life._

Jaskier deserved to be at a performance right now, singing and playing his heart out with the brightest smile he could possibly have, not sitting here at an inn, traumatized because what he built his life around - a core part of his identity, had been ripped away from him.

And Geralt…

In his mind, he deserved every bit of animosity sent his way.

“That’s why people call me the Butcher of Blaviken, Jaskier. Because I left the town’s streets ridden with carnage and it’s people in disarray. Because I slaughtered those people like animals. Because I bring pain and suffering everywhere I go and to everyone I meet…”

He thought about the stitches. Jaskier’s muffled cries. The blood that poured down his mouth. How, despite his life being ruined, he couldn’t even cry properly for fear of suffocation or mutilation.

Geralt thought it unnecessary to say it, but that didn’t stop him from thinking…

_...Even you._

There was silence. Not even silence filled by the scratch of a quill on parchment. Just… silence.

Geralt knew he should’ve looked at Jaskier. He knew. He knew. He knew. But… he couldn’t. He wanted to wait until Jaskier did… _something._ Slap him. Push him away. Tell him how much of a reprehensible monster he was for doing something so terrible and not telling him; for letting him go on defending a murderer for as long as he did, to the point where his life was ruined for it. Even if he left right that very moment, never to lay on the wretched creature before him again, it would’ve been _something._

He could feel the weight of the bed shift as he heard Jaskier stretch his legs, followed by his feet touching the ground.

_Right. Okay. He must be leaving now. That’s fine. It’s fine. It’s what I deserve._

But he didn’t leave; he was just sitting like Geralt was - on the edge of the bed, facing their room’s only window.

He… scooted closer to Geralt.

_...What?_

Slowly - so slowly, he was so afraid - Geralt looked at Jaskier.

He stared out the window, just like Geralt did before, as he tilted his head to the right. There was a calmness about him - a calmness Geralt didn’t expect or understand. There was nothing he expected in those eyes. No pain. No anger. No fear. It was like he was still taking in the story Geralt told, trying to make sense of it, but... if Geralt wasn’t trying so hard not to let himself be deluded, he’d admit that Jaskier looked like his sense of devotion to Geralt didn’t change - at least, not for the worse.

But he couldn’t let himself believe that. Surely, he was about to write in that journal of his that he never wanted to see the Butcher ever again. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, Jaskier fidgeted with the lace of his tunic as he eyed one of Geralt’s swords that sat up against the wall, and the golden brooch that plated it, glistening as it reflected sunlight from the window. He knew what Jaskier was wondering.

“That’s Renfri’s brooch.” he stated, “I couldn’t protect her body from Stregobor, so I kept that. The one part of her he didn’t ruin.”

Jaskier nodded. That’s all he did. He just… nodded as he looked down in thought.

Fuck. This wasn’t enough. He needed something more from Jaskier. Anger. Terror. Disgust. _Something._

“Don’t you see now?” he asked. He only continued when Jaskier met his gaze. “Don’t you understand how people are right to say what they say about me; that defending me is defending a murderer?”

He sighed as he looked at Jaskier’s mouth - brutally sewn up for defending Geralt so foolishly - and his eyes - still so confusingly free of animosity towards the Witcher.

_“Don’t you finally think I’m a monster?”_

Silence hung in the air - silence Geralt was sure would be there even if Jaskier could speak. He’d always been so scared to tell Jaskier about Blaviken. It may have been because the way Jaskier - sweet, oblivious, doe-eyed Jaskier - saw him as a misunderstood hero… a friend of humanity… the White Wolf…

He wanted to be that. He wanted to be, through-and-though, all the amazing things Jaskier somehow - some- _fucking_ -how - saw in him.

But he wasn’t, and he knew Jaskier only thought so highly of him because he had no clue what the title of “Butcher of Blaviken” really meant. If he did, he wouldn’t have said it like he did when he followed Geralt out of that tavern in Posada; it would’ve been spat at him venomously, or shouted at him with the same ferocity that those townspeople hurled their stones, not exclaimed as if it were a title to wear with pride.

But now… fuck, now he wished he told Jaskier _sooner._ He surely would’ve left Geralt in an instant if he knew, but then he never would’ve gotten hurt for defending Geralt’s nonexistent honor. He’d still be belting in a tavern somewhere, or maybe even performing at a royal court.

_Maybe he’d be better off if… if we never…_

Jaskier lifted his eyes from the ground, apparently no longer deep in thought as he turned his head and reached for his journal.

Geralt instinctively looked down at the ground, used to the routine of turning his head away from Jaskier while he wrote…

...But Jaskier gently brought one finger under Geralt’s chin and brought his head up, brushing his finger across a page of his opened journal.

“...You want me to read as you write.”

It was a statement, not a question; the look in Jaskier’s eyes was affirmation enough.

But… there was… such an _intimacy_ about that - an intimacy Geralt felt undeserving of. Before this moment, Jaskier wouldn’t show Geralt what he wrote until he wrote out exactly what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, and that was fine; Geralt never felt impatient when he did that, and even if he did, he knew whatever minute irritation he felt was nothing compared to how frustrating it must’ve been for Jaskier to have to do this every time he wanted to say something. Until he started learning a sign language - which could actually start whenever Jaskier was ready, for Geralt wasn’t exactly unilingual after nearly a hundred years of witchering - his journal was the closest thing he had to speech, and Geralt was content to let him use it however he needed to.

Jaskier lost so much control when that spider did this to him, and the way he’d been writing, refining all his thoughts as best he could before letting Geralt know them… it was one of the only things he had complete, honest-to-the-gods control over. He didn’t have control over how much was taken by the thread in his lips, or how to get it out, or the insecurities that riddled his mind, or how much he had to repress himself when he cried so he didn’t hurt himself, or so, so many other things. So, if there was still one thing he still had complete control over, it was what went on those pages.

And by letting Geralt observe his writing as he made it, he was relenting some of that control; it was literally an open book. Jaskier was going to let Geralt see all his hesitations, stumbles for the right words, and every imperfection on that page. It was like he was saying…

_“This is the one thing I don’t have to be vulnerable about, and to you, I will let myself be vulnerable about it."_

“Are you sure?” Geralt asked, even though he really wanted to ask what the hell Jaskier was thinking - why would he bequeath one of the few safeguards he had right now?

Jaskier nodded with one thing Geralt never - no, never in a thousand years - expected to see in his eyes: trust.

Despite everything he just said - despite all the sins he confessed - Jaskier trusted him to see this.

“...Alright.”

Geralt watched Jaskier’s hand - the hand he wanted to hold so badly - dance minutely and intricately on the page as the raven black of his ink contrasted with the beige of the parchment.

_I think…_

Jaskier’s chest rose high and fell deep. Geralt’s chest didn’t move a hair as he held his breath, bracing himself for something like “I think you’re a monster.” or “I think I’ve wasted every day I spent traveling with you.” or “I think I’ll never regret something as much as I regret defending you.” or “I think you should never come near me again.” or… or...

_I think you had an impossible choice._

...Well, he didn’t brace himself for _that._

_I think you did everything you could to…_

Jaskier’s hand stalled for a moment.

_….To handle the situation without hurting anyone. Everything you did…_

Geralt expected him to write that it was atrocious. Abhorrent. Deplorable.

_...You did because…_

Geralt expected to see that it was because he was a monster. A murderer. A heartless killer.

_...You didn’t want to choose between two evils._

Geralt didn’t see any of this coming. He drew his eyes up to Jaskier and looked at him in confusion. Jaskier’s eyes conveyed so much he didn’t prepare to see; he didn’t brace himself for gentility. For softness. For anything but disgust. Jaskier should’ve hated him. Why didn’t Jaskier hate him?

Before Geralt could ask anything, Jaskier looked back down and started writing again, prompting Geralt to do read along.

_I think you did everything you could to handle the situation without hurting anyone; you didn’t turn to violence until you didn’t have a choice anymore._

_I think Renfri deserved better…_

Right. Finally, something Geralt expected.

_...But so did you._

Never mind.

_I think you tried not to hurt her until you realized only one of you would live. You defended yourself, and you defended the innocents whose lives you thought were at stake. I don’t hold that against you._

“Why not?” The Witcher all but snapped.

Jaskier drew his gaze up to Geralt’s, confused by Geralt’s question.

“Why…” He couldn’t stop his voice from cracking. “Why don’t you hate me, Jaskier?”

...How _could_ he hate him? How could he hate someone he had constantly seen risking his life for humans who would’ve never done the same for him? How could he hate him for what he did not only in self-defense, but to save the lives of other humans? How could he hate someone who constantly tried to do good for humanity, even when humans put him through hell?

How could Jaskier hate the man he loved?

Jaskier looked at him for a moment before shaking his head and continuing to write.

_Because you gave her chance after chance._

_Because you gave her a choice to leave and start a new life._

_Because those men you killed… they knew Renfri was holding a child hostage, and they wanted to stop you from saving her. Because they weren’t innocent bystanders; they wanted you to either walk away from someone who needed help, or they wanted you dead._

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head.

 _Also, if I’m remembering correctly,_ he wrote, _aren’t they the ones Renfri had to stop from hurting you at that pub?_

“...They were.”

 _Bitches, Geralt._ Jaskier jotted down. _They were bitches._

Geralt huffed through his nose. Here Jaskier was, adding levity again, of course.

_Even though they hated you the moment they saw you, you still regret killing them. You regret killing them even though they wouldn’t have batted an eye if they killed you._

Jaskier looked up from his notebook and looked at Geralt again, eyebrows tilting his head and furrowing his eyebrows almost unnoticeably as he tried to study his expression.

“Their prejudice didn’t mean they had to die.”

Jaskier lifted his head and looked at the ceiling, huffing in exasperation before he dropped his head back down and wrote something else.

_But they tried to stop you from saving innocents._

_You only could have fought through them or walked away, and we both know you never would have done the latter._

Geralt knew Jaskier was right, but to see him not only still like him after finding out what happened in Blaviken, but also try to _convince_ Geralt why he still deserved Jaskier’s admiration… he may as well have been writing gibberish, it sounded so nonsensical.

_They knew what they were getting into when they chose to stand between you and Renfri. If you wanted to protect the town, you had no choice but to kill them._

He kept writing.

_I don’t hate you because you still tried, even after her death, to protect her body from that disgusting wizard when took her brooch with you after -_

His grip around the quill tightened.

_after those fuckers STONED you for defending them -_

“Jaskier, you might damage your quill. Please, relax.” Geralt urged. Reluctantly, it seemed, Jaskier decided against possibly ruining one of his only tools of communication and wrote more gently.

_so you could protect at least some part of her from anyone else._

A beat of silence, followed by more scribbles.

_Even though you thought I’d hate you for telling me this, you still told me to try to keep these stitches clean._

He picked up the cloth next to him that Geralt advised him to keep to his lips.

“I wouldn’t risk you getting an infection. You don’t deserve that.”

Jaskier looked up from his journal at Geralt; he clearly would have said “gotcha” if he could have.

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t think about what I deserve or don’t deserve._

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t care about whether or not I got an infection, especially if it thought I hated it._

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t have carried me here for help because I was stupid and pushed myself too hard._

“You’re not stupid.” The words fell from Geralt’s lips on instinct. Fuck that. Jaskier was too good to talk badly about himself.

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t tell me that._ Jaskier retorted.

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t have fought like hell to save me back at that cave, or come for me as fast as it could when it was too late to do that._

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t have killed Arachnir out of vengeance because it found out he hurt me._

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t try to fix it’s mistakes and take care of me, even though I was angry after what it did. It wouldn’t try to fix it’s mistakes at all._

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn’t have ran miles through the forest to save my life._

Something twisted a bit in Geralt’s heart - he knew he wasn’t talking about what happened by the cave this time. He almost didn’t want Jaskier to bring it up, but that wasn’t his choice to -

 _A_ _monster_ _wouldn't have talked me out of killing myself._

Jaskier didn’t look up at Geralt this time, his heavy gaze still planted on that sentence. Even now, just like everything else from the past day, it was bizarre to acknowledge, feeling more like part of some bruxa-born nightmare than a reality; Jaskier was going to kill himself last night. If Geralt didn’t wake up when he did, find him, and get through to him, he would have been dead right now. The soil of that forest would have been soaked through with Jaskier’s blood, and Geralt would have eventually found his body being picked at by scavengers, reeking of death. Obviously, neither of them really wanted to bring that up, and Geralt immediately felt guilty for being the reason Jaskier did.

But before he could open his mouth, Jaskier jotted something down again.

_But you did._

_You helped me. You stayed with me. You gave me hope._

_You made me feel like_

He paused to find the right words.

_Even though it would be hard, there was a reason for me to continue living._

Geralt heard him breathe shakily and deeply through his nose.

_I didn’t have that._

_I was in pain, I was terrified, I was sad, and I felt alone._

“You’re not alone.” Again, the words just fell out on instinct.

_I thought I pushed you away. When I was bitter at you, and you thought I hated you, I thought that was it - that as soon as you got the chance, you’d leave me, and_

He dropped the quill and pressed the base of his palm against one of his eyes.

Geralt’s heart twisted in his chest when he saw sweet, sweet Jaskier try not to cry. Before he thought to stop himself - even if he did think to stop himself, he would have decided against it - he put one hand on Jaskier’s bicep and used the other to rub soothing circles up and down his back. He didn’t think about anything else but the fact that Jaskier was trying not to cry, that he was _hurt._ The Witcher would have been an idiot to think what happened last night wouldn’t affect Jaskier like this, but still, to see him so vulnerable made Geralt just want to wrap the poor lark up in his arms and shower him with enough love to drown the pain.

But he didn’t.

He knew showering him in affection like that would have startled him - at least, he _thought_ he knew, but he had no idea that’s what Jaskier wanted more than anything - so he settled for comforting him like this, trying to ignore the guilt that clung to him as he did. Arachnir may have been the one who silenced Jaskier, but Geralt was the one that made him feel so scared of being alone - of being _abandoned._

“I won’t leave you like that, Jaskier. Never.” It wasn’t just something he was saying to comfort him. He knew what it meant to be abandoned; he’d never make Jaskier feel like that, and he’d never make Jaskier feel like this, or the way he felt last night, ever again - at least, not by choice.

“I promise.”

Jaskier took his hand off his eye and blinked a few times, clearly relieved to have stopped himself from crying again. He shouldn’t have had to stop himself from crying. He should never have had to fear suffocating because he was in so much pain that he wanted to cry. It was so fucking wrong.

Jaskier looked at Geralt with a hint of confusion, and the Witcher took his hands off of him, failing to see how that confusion turned into sadness when he did. Nonetheless, Jaskier picked up his quill and wrote something again.

_You saved my life, Geralt of Rivia. No ifs, ands, or buts about that. Monsters don’t save lives. They do nothing but end lives and make them miserable._

_You are not a monster._

He dragged his inked quill underneath that sentence to stress his point.

Jaskier finally looked up from his journal and met Geralt’s eyes again; there was conviction in his eyes; he didn’t want to leave Geralt any room to argue. Even if he could - and he could, for his self-loathing was relentless, even against Jaskier’s admiration - Geralt didn’t want to argue. He couldn’t. Not after this. Besides, if Jaskier was this passionate about Geralt’s humanity, what good was there in trying to convince Jaskier of his lack thereof.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand the way you see me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shrugged and shook his head a bit, as if to say he didn’t have to - it wouldn’t change anything.

After a beat, he looked back down, his hair swooping in front of his face again as he wrote a quick sentence with a huff through his nose.

_I see why you punched me in the gut now._

Geralt shook his head and exhaled in a way that sounded like the ghost of a laugh.

“I did say I was sorry.”

 _I know!_ Jaskier wrote. _I’m just saying I can see why! I had it coming, I admit._

He put down the quill and flung his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. Geralt let a smile tug at his lips.

“No, that reaction was bullshit. You couldn’t have known. Obviously, you didn’t. Can’t believe you still followed me after that.”

Jaskier tilted his head a bit to the right and raised his eyebrows a bit, a look that clearly conveyed a humored “Are you _serious?”_ , before he rolled his eyes, shook his head a bit, and wrote something else.

_Geralt, at this point, you and I both know that I have the self-preservation skills of a drunken moth in a candle shop._

“Hmm… quite the analogy. Can moths even get drunk?”

Jaskier shrugged. Though it couldn’t be on his lips, there was a smile in his eyes - a smile that even made Geralt smile himself.

But much to Geralt’s dismay, that smile left as quickly as it came, replaced by the furrow of Jaskier’s brow that only happened when he was thinking about something. Geralt tilted his head.

“Jaskier? Is everything okay?”

He didn’t nod or shake his head - he only wrote down a question.

_Do you want me to hate you?_

Geralt opened his mouth only to close it again, his gaze meeting the ground.

“I - I don’t - what?” Geralt stammered. Gods, what a strange thing - Geralt of Rivia, the most notable Witcher of the Continent, a ruthless and brutal monster hunter for hire, was _stammering._

_You kept trying to disagree with me because I still respect you. So, I honestly don’t know._

He wrote down the question again.

_Do you want me to hate you?_

What kind of question was that? Of course he didn’t. The thought of Jaskier looking at him with the same hatred in his eyes that Geralt would find the eyes of one of those townspeople from Blaviken… he could almost feel the bile rise in his throat. No, he didn’t want Jaskier to hate him. He didn’t understand Jaskier’s respect for him, and he didn’t feel like he deserved it, but that didn’t change the fact that he wanted it.

“No.” he finally uttered, the rest of his words still stuck in his throat like mucus to be expelled in a nasty cough. Of course, for the ever-emotionally-constipated Geralt of Rivia, talking about his feelings and what he wanted was the equivalent, if not worse, than a nasty cough.

“I don’t… I don’t understand why you don’t hate me. I think you should, but I don’t want you to.” he choked out the rest of the words. They didn’t capture all of his thoughts - only a fraction of what he really felt - but every word he _did_ just say was true, so he felt fine enough to let himself say it to Jaskier, content with the fact that he wasn’t lying to the lark. He heard a short scribble and drew his eyes to the notebook.

_Good._

A few more scribbles.

_Because I don’t._

Another.

_And I won’t._

Geralt locked eyes with Jaskier again; there was nothing but conviction in his eyes. He looked more sure of this than he did anything else since yesterday. Geralt knew that somehow, during what had to be the most uncertain time of his life, Jaskier was completely sure that he would never, _ever_ hate Geralt. At this, he was still stunned.

“Right. Good.” he all but choked out.

No, no, that wasn’t enough. He had to say more; he owed that much to Jaskier, who couldn’t say anything. To just sit here, and only choke out a few words, even though Jaskier would do _anything_ to be able to say just one? No. He couldn’t do that.

“...Thank you.”

Jaskier’s heart hurt. Geralt sat right next to him, hands clasped together - Jaskier just wanted to hold those hands so badly, to pull his undeserved self-loathing out of him through touch - as he stared down at the ground. He wasn’t used to seeing his Witcher like this, so unsure and vulnerable. Not in any sense. He wasn’t used to this yesterday, when Geralt gently set aside the door he kicked down and ran to him, shouting his name, he wasn’t used to it last night when tears marked his rain-covered cheeks, wide eyes glistening as he apologized for everything and begged, _begged_ him not to end his own life, and he wasn’t used to it now.

There was a question that bugged him ever since he woke up here:

_If I knew Arachnir would do this to me, would I still defend Geralt’s honor?_

But now, as Jaskier watched his Witcher choke out words of gratitude because he felt undeserving of his fondness… after listening to Geralt tell him about his deepest shame… after seeing Geralt try to convince him that he was a monster because he was so sure that Jaskier would hate him for what he did that Jaskier’s continued respect was a complete and utter shock…

He knew exactly what his answer was. At this point, he had never been more sure about anything in his life than he was about what he was about to write down.

The scratch of quill on parchment, a sound Jaskier had been used to long before this, drew his Witcher’s journal as he wrote…

_I’d do it again, you know._

“Do what?” Geralt asked, despite how obvious it was that he already knew. He just barely held back an eye-roll as he elaborated.

_Defending your honor -_

Geralt opened his mouth; Jaskier put up a finger and shot him a warning look as if he knew Geralt was about to say something about not having any.

_-to Arachnir._

_That’s what._

“...Oh.”

_If I knew he’d_

His quill halted as his hand froze up. He couldn’t write those words right now. Just thinking about it made the saliva in his mouth feel like bile. Turning his face to Geralt, he cast his eyes down, gesturing handlessly to _those._ He didn’t need to write down what Geralt knew he meant.

_I’d still tell him off._

“Jask-”

_I’d still tell him how wrong he was, and I’d still tell him that if anyone was a monster, it was him._

_Not you._

_Never you._

When Geralt read this, he shook his head, just shy of exasperated.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shrugged.

Scribble scribble scribble.

_You wouldn’t be._

“But…”

There was a question about to fall from the Witcher’s lips, but he stopped himself. He knew that if he asked why he would do that, Jaskier would just say some more sappy, devoted, “I-Still-Respect-You” shit that he didn’t understand, and making him elaborate would just be a waste of ink.

“...And I would have gotten there faster.” Geralt said instead. What he meant by _there_ was as easy to see as the thread in Jaskier’s lips. “I would have stopped him. I wouldn’t have killed him, at least. I wouldn’t have taken his bullshit contract.”

Jaskier shook his head.

_There’s no point to your regret, Geralt. You didn’t know._

He suddenly realized something, as if he put two and two together and got forty-seven.

_This morning, when I collapsed in your arms..._

_I reminded you of when Renfri died, didn’t I?_

Geralt saw how Jaskier’s eyebrows upturned, a sight he came to hate in the past day. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Jaskier's hand scrambled across the page.

_That’s what you meant when you said I reminded you of something you’d rather forget, isn’t it?_

Geralt wished he could deny that, but…

“Yes.”

Jaskier didn’t respond much to that; he only wrote something else - something even more painful to read.

_When I ran from camp to_

His writing halted for a second. He didn’t like writing down those words; writing them down meant remembering that it happened.

_I made you think someone else you cared about was going to die, didn’t I?_

Geralt pursed his lips.

_I terrified you because you because I made you think you couldn’t save me, just like_

“Regardless of Renfri,” Geralt cut him off, “I would have been terrified last night. You could have died; even if I didn’t fail her, I would have been scared to fail you.”

He knew he couldn’t deny Jaskier the answer to his question.

“...But… I didn’t want history to repeat itself.”

When Jaskier’s expression worsened, his eyes now glistening under upturned brows, Geralt wished he hadn’t said those words; he should have left it at the fact that he would have been terrified without the memory of Renfri. Stupid, stupid Geralt. Fucking stupid Geralt. Jaskier just looked so _ashamed_ , and Geralt _hated_ it. How could he be ashamed for that - for something he resorted to because he felt utterly hopeless because of _Geralt’s_ actions?

He reached over and gently grabbed both of Jaskier’s shoulders, turning his torso around so he’d face him. Despite their proximity, he didn’t look at Jaskier’s stitches. Just his eyes. Only his eyes.

“I know you feel guilty. Don’t.” He grimaced at the initial harshness of his words, for simply telling him not to feel like this wouldn’t make those feelings go away. “Please, Jaskier, there’s nothing to be remorseful about. You’re still here, and that’s what matters.”

Blinking tears away, Jaskier nodded in comprehension. Geralt let go of his shoulders and sat back up, looking at the floorboards again. He tried to figure out what to say next - there was still so much they had to figure out - but he heard Jaskier scribble something again, so, hoping to everything he could that he didn’t write anything else about his near-attempt - he would have listened if Jaskier needed him to, but that didn’t make last night a pleasant memory (except, somewhat, for their closeness (not cuddling)) - he drew his eyes to the journal.

_Can I ask you something, Geralt?_

The Witcher sighed, “Don’t waste your ink, Jaskier.”

When Jaskier set his quill down, seemingly resigned, Geralt realized Jaskier took his words the wrong way. He didn’t mean to rebuff him; he meant to say that Jaskier didn’t have to preface his question with one like that. The only thing the Witcher would ever hide from the bard was how much he wanted him to be _his_ bard. _His_ lark. _His_ flower. _His…_

What was the point in finding the right word for something that would never happen?

“I mean-” Geralt rushed the words out of his mouth before Jaskier could close his journal, “-you can ask me anything.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows and nodded, throwing his head back just a bit in a silent expression of sudden understanding. Because he knew that whatever question Jaskier had was one he was so nervous to ask that he prefaced it with another, Geralt looked back at the ground the instant he saw inked quill hit paper.

He placed his hands over one another, drumming the fingers of his left hand against the knuckles of his right as he listened to the quill-scratching over his own racing heartbeat.

Five seconds didn’t even pass - though it felt like five-hundred did - before Jaskier’s quill went silent and Geralt felt the bard tap his shoulder. He lifted his head and turned it to view the journal, auch a minute motion, and yet so difficult - and read…

_Did you love Renfri?_

...Fuck.

Even though Jaskier prefaced the question the way he did, it did nothing to prepare him; another Witcher could have signed aard at him and sent him flying across the room, and he still wouldn’t have been as taken aback as he was by this.

He did. He did love her, but to say that to Jaskier… he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak of such old, painful love to the person he loved now, the person he was so _scared_ to love because of what happened to her.

All he could bring himself to do was nod.

_...Oh._

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, nodding slowly; now, it was his turn to stare at the floorboards. That was why Geralt acted the way he did to him, Jaskier thought - so tense, so inarticulate, so stoic, even abrasive at times. He was scared to let anyone get close to him again. The last time he let himself love, it ended in the worst possible way it could have. That scarred his Witcher, and he knew that.

 _He’s not ready for the love I want to give him._ Jaskier thought. _Maybe he never will be._

_He’ll never love me the way he loved her…_

Jaskier drew his gaze back to Geralt, not that the Witcher noticed. He sat with his elbows on his spread-apart knees, hands clasped together as his eyes, such immaculate amber, looked vacantly at the ground. He felt bad for asking such a question - for making Geralt admit to such a painful thing as killing a woman he loved.

_...But that’s okay._

He looked out the window, looking at the blue sky beyond the sunlit trees, breeze whistling through their leaves, rich green as they always were in the summer. The beauty outside that window was nothing compared to the beauty at his side. As much as it ached to keep these feelings inside, Jaskier thought it would hurt even more to burden Geralt with the knowledge that he was in love with him.

He couldn’t do that to the Witcher. Not after everything he already did for him. He just couldn’t.

So, he kept looking out the window.

Geralt lifted his head and gazed at Jaskier, not that the bard noticed. He sat with his legs together, his hands in his lap as his fingertips absentmindedly trailing over the open pages of his journal. The sunlight from outside illuminated Jaskier’s face, reflecting off the chestnut wonder that swooped over his forehead and highlighting the contrast between the paleness of his face, the pinkness of his lips, and the blackness of the thread embedded in them that drew them shut.

More than anything, he looked at Jaskier’s eyes. Just barely more than half-open, they were as blue, if not bluer, than the sky he was looking at so… sadly. He looked so, so sad.

But he was so fucking beautiful.

And Geralt could tell him that now, if he truly wanted to; unlike how that thread silenced the man he loved, there was nothing physically stopping Geralt from telling Jaskier, at this very moment, about how he felt. About the fact that he _did_ love Renfri, but now, he loved Jaskier - he was _in love_ with Jaskier. About being in love with him ever since the day they met in that shitty tavern. About loving more than anything - more than the sun, the sky, or every single star. About how loving him was as natural as breathing. He could tell Jaskier that he loved him more than he ever loved or will love anything else.

Well, maybe he wouldn’t say all of that, but he could say the four words he’d been holding inside for so long…

_Jaskier, I love you._

The words were on the tip of his tongue. If he truly wanted to, he could say them right now.

And he truly wanted to.

“Jaskier…”

Jaskier turned his head and looked at him, very attentive for someone who had no idea how bold of a statement he was about to hear.

His eyes widened.

His breathing quickened. Then, it hitched.

He pulled his head back reflexively and desperately rubbed his knuckles over his nose. When he stopped, he looked down at the ground with still wide eyes, huffing through his nose and whimpering behind the stitches.

A sneeze. Jaskier feared ripping his lips apart because of a fucking sneeze.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asked him. Jaskier waited a beat, just to make sure the crisis was well and truly averted, and nodded. He made eye contact with him, and Geralt could see the residue of pure terror in his eyes.

Furrowing his brows, Jaskier took his hand off his nose and motioned for him to continue.

...No. He couldn’t do this.

How could he bring himself to burden Jaskier with the knowledge of his feelings for him? He'd already gone through so much; to know that a Witcher fell in love with him would just be too much to process, especially for someone who certainly didn't love him back?

Besides, even if somehow, through some indescribably unlikely sick joke from the gods, Jaskier _did_ return his feelings...

Being a Witcher’s bard got him hurt; it got his mouth sewn shut and his life ruined.

Being a Witcher’s lover would get him killed.

"...Forgot."

Jaskier looked at him skeptically for a beat, but nonetheless shrugged and kept looking out the window. Geralt did the same, even though the beauty outside was nothing compared to the beauty at his side.

Completely oblivious to each other’s affections, the lovestruck witcher and silent bard - complete opposites of what society expected from them - both thought the very same thing at this moment.

_The man at my side may never feel the same way about me as I do about him, and we may never be together in the way I want us to be, but that’s okay._

_If I can be there for him now…_

_If I can just be who he needs me to be…_

_That would be enough._

They looked out the window side-by-side, silence laying between them, save for Jaskier’s deep breaths through his nose. It was comfortable - surprisingly so, given their circumstances. After a few beats passed, Geralt heard the quiet scribble of quill against parchment again, and he looked at the paper.

_What now?_

As if he could sense the Witcher’s confusion, Jaskier elaborated.

_Where do we go from here?_

“That’s up to you, Jaskier.” Geralt told him, for he owed Jaskier that control. “You could keep traveling with me, and I’d start teaching you sign; you wouldn't have to keep writing everything out. I’ve learned a few sign languages, and humans in this part of the Continent mainly stick to one, so that would be simple enough.”

Jaskier huffed through his nose. Simplicity - what an outlandish concept it was now.

“I’d have to take higher contracts since you can’t perform for coin, but you could stay with me, and we’d keep looking for someone to fix what’s happened to you. But, if there’s anywhere else you’d like to be, or anyone else you’d like to stay with until I find a way to fix this, then I’d-”

Jaskier scoffed through his nose and shook his head, cutting Geralt off.

_Don’t be silly. I don’t have anywhere else to go. Not like this._

“Really?”

Jaskier spared him a nod.

_Going back to Oxenfurt would be useless. I can’t teach like this. I can’t be surrounded by music right now, let alone be expected to give lectures about it._

“Any family?”

Jaskier snickered sadly through the stitches, shaking his head...

_My parents back in Lettenhove would probably be happy to know I’ve finally shut up._

“...Oh.”

That was all Geralt could say as contempt bubbled in his stomach. The thought of the sweet lark being cast aside and treated cruelly by his own parents made his skin crawl, but he ignored it as Jaskier continued.

_There’s no one else I trust to see me like this, Geralt._

He paused a beat, then wrote something else.

_There’s no one on this earth I’d rather stay with right now than you._

At Geralt’s stunned silence, a result of shock at the trust Jaskier still had in Geralt, Jaskier shook his head and rushed to scribble something else.

_But I wouldn’t want to distract you from the path!_

“You’re my path, Jaskier.”

Jaskier whipped his head up and looked at Geralt; now, he was the one shocked at the other man’s words. Fuck, of course he was; who wouldn’t have been shocked by that. Berating himself inside, Geralt quickly elaborated.

“I mean, finding someone who can help you and fixing my bullshit mistake… that’s the only path I care about right now.”

Jaskier’s eyes glistened again as he blinked tears away, picking up his quill in his shaking hand. The Witcher eyed him in worry, already berating himself for whatever he said that upset the bard.

_I’m scared, Geralt._

_I’m not so scared that I don’t want to keep going._

_I do._

_But I’m scared._

_I’m scared of living like this._

_I’m scared of getting used to this._

_I’m scared of getting used to not singing._

_I’m scared of getting used to shoving a tube through these FUCKING stitches just so I can survive._

_I’m scared I’ll never smile again. I can’t even try without it hurting._

_I’m scared of yawning in my sleep and ripping the stitches out._

_I’m scared of sneezing._

_I’M SCARED OF FUCKING SNEEZING GERALT_

Geralt reached his left arm across Jaskier so he could try to grasp his right shoulder, intending to turn him towards him just like he did before, during the last time Jaskier started to spiral.

"I know you're scared, but…"

Before Geralt could touch him, Jaskier turned to face the Witcher and wrapped his arms around him before Geralt could even register what was happening. He froze for a moment, stunned into immobility, but as the bard’s embrace tightened, he returned it. He felt every groove in Jaskier’s shirt under his fingertips as he rubbed the bard’s back in soothing circles. He could feel Jaskier grip the fabric of his shirt and hear the shaky breaths he took through his nose - Jaskier’s chin rested right on Geralt’s shoulder, after all - and Geralt tilted his head so the sides of their heads touched each other. It was just a little bit of extra affection he thought - and was right to think - that Jaskier needed.

He struggled to think of things to say - _honest_ things, anyway - that would make Jaskier feel better.

_It’s okay._

**No, it’s not.**

_It’ll be better soon._

**Not soon enough.**

_Someone out there can fix this._

**You don’t know that.**

He couldn’t rely on things beyond themselves getting better; the world made it clear that it was merciless and untrustworthy. Jaskier couldn’t count on the world, but he _could_ count on Geralt.

So, he said… 

"I'm here, Jaskier, and I won't change that unless you want me to." Geralt told him, his voice soft, "Even if we get separated by a contract or something, I _will_ make it back to you. I'll cut through whatever I need to make that happen. You’re not alone, Jaskier. I promise.”

A beat of silence passed as they held each other close.

“But there’s something you need to promise me.”

Jaskier pulled away and tilted his head in inquiry.

"I almost lost you too many times, Jaskier. At the cave… in the forest… when you collapsed… and every time, it's worried me almost to death. You don't have to apologize, but... I don’t - I can’t watch you get hurt because you push yourself too hard, or you endanger yourself because you don’t want to be seen as a burden when you’re not.”

_I love you too much for that._

“Please, just promise me you'll be honest with me and tell me if you need anything."

Jaskier looked like he was about to nod, but he paused and wrote something in his journal again.

_How do you sign it?_

_That you promise something?_

Geralt took his right hand and balled it into a fist, it’s thumb-side facing the ceiling as he pointed his left index finger to his lip, pressing his finger just under his lower lip before bringing his hand down, spreading out his fingers and pressing his palm against the thumb-side of his right hand.

“Like that.”

Jaskier copied the sign. His movements, as few as there were to the sign, were slow and cautious, like he assumed he was doing something wrong even after copying it perfectly. Jaskier knew his first sign now; it was a good start.

“The first thing I’ll show you is the alphabet.’ Geralt told him. Jaskier nodded and wrote down another question.

_So, what about the rest of the day?_

“Today, you should rest and regain your strength. I can ask around here about mages who can remove curses, unless you want me to stay here. Either way, you should stay here for today.”

Jaskier nodded in understanding, a shrug bouncing his shoulders a bit as he eyed the view out their window.

_I don’t mind that. This view is lovely._

Geralt was unbelievably close to telling Jaskier _he_ was lovely, but he didn’t.

“Tomorrow, we can head out of here and make our way to the next town, and I can try to find a contract.” he continued. They both knew he’d have to take more contracts now; Jaskier couldn’t perform in exchange for a room at an inn anymore, after all. Exhausted at the thought of feeling guilty for something else, all Jaskier did was nod in comprehension.

But then, he furrowed his eyebrows in a quizzical expression, gesturing to his lips as he eyed Geralt. Immediately knowing he wasn’t understood, he wrote his question down.

_But what about covering my face? I can't let people see this!_

That question reminded Geralt of something; not just an answer, but a gift.

“I thought so, too. Close your eyes.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, but shrugged with a noncommittal hum and did what he was told.

Geralt got up from the bed and walked over to his bag. Jaskier turned his head in Geralt’s direction, following the sound of his footsteps before they stopped, replaced by the sound of rummaging. Even this was replaced after a moment by a mumbled “Found it” and the return of footsteps, this time coming back towards Jaskier and stopping in front of him.

Jaskier tilted his chin up, only to lower it when he heard Geralt kneel down.

Calloused fingers brushed around Jaskier’s ears, inadvertently running through his hair as Geralt looped a string around each of them; he squeezed his eyes tighter, just by a barely noticeable fraction, and suppressed a shiver at the Witcher’s touch. He felt something drape over the bottom half of his face, from over the bridge of his nose and just under his eyes to just underneath his chin; it was smooth - comfortable, actually; it must have been silk, or something - and it didn’t stifle his breathing at all.

Geralt’s fingertips lingered on Jaskier’s jaw for a few beats - fuck, he never wanted that touch to go away - and Jaskier hid his disdain when he took his hands away.

“Alright, open your eyes.”

He did what he was told, again, but he still couldn’t see what was on his face. So, he unhooked the string from around one of his ears and pulled the cloth in front of him. It was blue; a light blue, a hue somewhere between the color of his doublet and trousers and the color of his eyes.

“It’s a mask. Found one at the market when I was getting supplies.” Geralt told him, his sentences blunt, as if he’d finally ran out of eloquence after telling Jaskier everything he’d told him. “It matches your clothes. People won’t see the stitches this way. Can you breathe alright?”

Jaskier nodded, unspoken gratitude in his eyes. Thankfully, the mask covered the pink tint in his cheeks.

Suddenly, Geralt saw Jaskier’s eyes widen - not only that; his eyes _lit up._ Before the Witcher had the chance to ask what happened, Jaskier excitedly waved his hand in front of Geralt - he didn’t know why, for Jaskier already had his attention - and jotted something down in his journal. He crossed his legs underneath the journal, so Geralt couldn’t see what he wrote. It didn’t look like it was for any serious reason, though, and Geralt could tell by the light in his eyes.

Jaskier flipped his journal around and showed him a word, scribbled across the page with an obviously excited hand.

_MASKIER!_

...A pun.

Geralt looked at the journal for a moment. Then, he slowly drew his eyes up to Jaskier’s; for the first time in what felt like forever, there was pure joy in those eyes.

_HE. IS. SO. FUCKING. CUTE._

“...Hmm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I really hope you all liked this chapter! I'm not sure when I'll have the next one out, but I AM sure that it won't take place in the inn room that Geralt and Jaskier have been in for like... five chapters now (hooraaay!)  
> Until then, take a page from Jaskier's book and WEAR A FUCKING MASK.  
> <3 <3 <3  
> My Tumblr: @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account


	13. A Bard Learning Sign Language, A Witcher Teaching the Bard Sign Language, Copious Amounts of Yearning and Hand-Touching, and a Room at an Inn With Only One Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt starts teaching Jaskier sign language, and Geralt constantly putting his hands on Jaskier's to show him signs only strengthens the yearning between the two. Also, what are a Witcher and Bard to do when there's only one bed in the inn room?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! Sorry for the two month hiatus - uni is a real doozy, and after my finals ended, I took a few weeks to organize an outline for the rest of this fic. Hoping to maybe get another chapter or two out before break ends! 'Til then, enjoy this one! xoxo

For someone else, learning a sign language may have been nothing short of a trial and tribulation. For Jaskier, however, that thankfully wasn’t the case; on the contrary, he was a rather quick study to it. It was actually quite similar to playing his lute, if he thought about it long enough (and he did); to play music, be it with his lute or one of the many other instruments in his repertoire, he had to think of which note or chord he wanted to play, and move his fingers into the necessary position to play it. Signing was similar, especially when it came to fingerspelling words, which was the first thing Geralt taught him.

“That way, you can spell out something if you don’t know the sign. It’s the best place to start.” he told Jaskier the day after the incident regarding his dehydration, which led to him passing out and waking up at an inn (a.k.a. The Inn-cedent).

In this, he had to think of what he wanted to say, remember the signs for the letters in that word, and move his fingers accordingly to spell it out. It was one of the few connections he still had to his music that, for the time being, he could utilize without it being painful.

Perhaps, although he was hesitant to start playing again, his experience in playing music was to thank for how relatively easily he began to adjust.

However, that’s not to say it wasn’t challenging. That’s not to say there weren’t times where Jaskier would misspell words over and over despite the twenty - felt like fifty - times he’d try to get them right, that’s not to say sometimes his hand wouldn’t move in an awkward way while he was spelling and make a sign that wasn’t even a letter at all, and that’s definitely not to say there weren’t times he’d be in the middle of fingerspelling, lose track of what he was signing, and just forsake the rest of what he wanted to say out of sheer frustration.

But Geralt was patient, for he knew learning a new language out of necessity presented its own unique difficulties to the bard; he always kept this in mind.

“It’s alright, Jaskier,” he’d remind the bard whenever he started to get upset with himself for his mistakes, “You’re doing fine.”

Sometimes Jaskier wouldn’t believe him, and he’d instead be skeptical about the Witcher’s patience; after all, as sad as it was, Geralt was more patient and kind to Jaskier than Jaskier was to himself.

But he didn’t give up - not out of drive or determination, but because, unless he wanted to go back to writing everything out, he didn’t have many alternatives.

Nevertheless, his persistence wasn’t in vain. A two days after the Inn-cedent, and four days after Jaskier got the stitches, Geralt and Jaskier had long since left that inn and were on their way to the next town after Geralt first showed him the most useful sign-alphabet to learn. As they made their way down the roads - both of them on foot, Geralt leading Roach as Jaskier walked in sidestep - Geralt glanced down at Jaskier’s hand when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He thought Jaskier was doing that fidgety thing he always did, when he would rub his thumb against his finger tips, but as he drew his gaze forward again inconspicuously and continued to focus on what was in his peripheral vision, he saw that Jaskier was fingerspelling, running through the alphabet and trying to make it through the whole thing by memory.

He didn’t stare - he didn’t want Jaskier to feel like some spectacle for trying to practice something, especially this - but he made sure to keep looking out of the corner of his eye as Jaskier kept spelling…

...until he made it through the whole thing.

Jaskier’s mask still lay over most of his face, hiding the ghost of any smile that might have pulled ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth - anything lighter than a slight twitch would have tugged the stitches and hurt him - but when Geralt looked at him again, he still couldn’t help but notice that Jaskier looked just a bit happier with himself now.

And he couldn't help but hum, happily and unnoticeably, to himself.

Geralt taught him signs for emergencies and necessities that night, like if he was in pain, or hungry or thirsty, but especially if he was sick. Such a lesson took place Geralt and Jaskier sat at their camp, sitting criss-cross applesauce on Geralt's bedroll, facing one another, illuminated by firelight as daylight dimmed.

“This,” Geralt started as he touched one of his middle fingers to his forehead and the other to his stomach, outstretching his other fingers as he did, “Is how you sign “sick”.” He put his hands down. “Hopefully you won’t need to use it.”

Jaskier, no longer wearing his mask as they sat alone in the forest clearing (well not completely alone, as Roach stood a yard or two away, munching on some grass), copied Geralt’s sign near-perfectly, the one flaw being that one of his hands was at his chest, not his stomach.

“Hmm.” Geralt tilted his head as he looked at Jaskier.

Jaskier tilted his head, too. What was he doing wrong? He didn’t know.

Geralt reached out and gently took hold of Jaskier’s misplaced hand, still positioned as it was before. Jaskier looked down at the hand on his.

_He’s holding my hand again… my hand… is in his hand…_

He wished he was wearing his mask; it would have hid the pink tint to his cheeks.

Geralt berated himself immediately.

_What are you doing? You could have just repeated the sign! Now you’re unnerving Jaskier!_

_…_

_I like his hands, though. They’re nice. Soft._

He brought Jaskier’s hand down to his stomach and let go.

“Like that.”

Jaskier nodded, still entranced for a moment until he shook his head, snapping himself out of it as he asked Geralt a question.

_H-O-W S-A-Y W-I-T-C-H-E-R?_

Geralt made a mental note to show him signs to use in questions; the only reason he went straight to signs to use for emergencies after the alphabet was that danger was the norm when traveling with a Witcher, so Geralt figured that after the alphabet, signs for emergencies and necessities were the most important signs for Jaskier to be able to convey.

_So, question signs after this, then._

“There’s no sign for it. Witchers do use magic signs,” he quickly corrected himself with a slight raise of his brows, “But… no, there’s no sign. Most people would probably sign “monster killer”, though.”

Geralt faced his palms down, curled his outstretched fingers to resemble claws, and pulled them towards his face to sign “Monster”. Then, he positioned his right hand so his fingers were straight but still touching each other, his thumb facing him while the side of his pinky finger faced outward; with his left hand, he closed all fingers but his index, and struck the thumb-side of his index finger along the open palm of his right hand to sign “kill”. Finally, he straightened his hands again, making them face one another as he brought them down in a short, quick motion, adding this marker to make “kill” into “killer”.

Jaskier copied the signs just as Geralt signed them, though part of him wanted to “mess up” in such a way that Geralt would hold his hand and move it to the correct spot again. He quite liked that; the Witcher’s hands were so rough, hardened and calloused by the world’s cruelty, but his touch was so gentle… so soft… 

He didn’t do that, though; he would have hated to frustrate Geralt by making mistakes, however intentional they were.

“That’s the polite choice, anyway.” Geralt added, “Most people would just say “monster”, though.”

Jaskier huffed through his nose and cast his gaze down, fingerspelling with one hand as the other balled into a fist.

_I-D-I-O-T-S_

He looked up at Geralt again, casting his anger aside for curiosity as he remembered something the Witcher said before.

_W-I-T-C-H-E-R S-I-G-N-S?_

The tilt of his head and furrow to his brow made clear he wasn’t just remarking about them, but asking for elaboration.

“They’re not a Witcher sign language, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Geralt assured, “Witchers use them for spells. I’ve used some of them around you, actually. You’ve seen me use aard in fights, and sometimes, I use igni to get a fire going. Haven’t used axii around you, though.”

Jaskier tilted his head once again and raised an eyebrow in inquisition.

_A-X-Y?_

“Two “I”s, Jaskier, not a “Y”.” Geralt corrected, “I’d spell it out, but it’d just activate the sign.”

Jaskier turned his hands palms-up, closed all fingers but his thumb and index finger on each hand, and tapped them together twice - a basic sign Geralt taught him for “do” - and although he didn’t sign “what” as well, the downward curve to his brow was inquisitorial enough.

_“What does it do?”_

Geralt hesitated. He wanted to say it was used for hypnosis and manipulation of the mind, but to tell Jaskier he was capable of something so invasive…

No, he didn’t want to keep things like this from him. The only secret he wanted to keep from Jaskier was that he loved him. He didn’t need that burden, Geralt thought.

But this… it wouldn’t have hurt to tell Jaskier. He still stayed by the Witcher’s side after he found out about Blaviken, for Melitele’s sake!

 _It’s not like I’d ever use it on him, anyway._ Geralt thought.

“It messes with people’s heads. I can calm people down, hypnotize them, make them do as I say. It’s like… mind control. It's invasive as hell, so I don’t ever use it except for emergencies. It’s like... It’s like the sign for “sick” for you; hopefully, I wont ever have to use it.”

Jaskier nodded in understanding, pausing for a moment as he thought of something…

_W-H-I-T-E W-O-L-F?_

Geralt put one hand on his chest, keeping his fingers stretched out, and pulled it forward, pulling his fingers together as he did, signing “white.” He did the same motion in front of his face to sign “wolf”.

Jaskier repeats the sign. Then repeats it again. Then again, seemingly amused.

_F-U-N S-I-G-N_

Though it couldn’t be on Jaskier’s lips for reasons as obvious as they were gruesome, there was a smile in those eyes, forget-me-not hued wonders that Geralt never wanted to forget. The Witcher watched him adoringly, entranced by the way that little _swoop_ of hair on his forehead brushed against his brow with every little motion of his head.

A soft smile made its way to Geralt’s lips. He let it stay there for a moment. Why hide it?

“There’s more important signs I should show you, unless you’re getting tired.” Geralt suggested, letting the short-lived smile fade and his resting witcher face to come back into prominence.

Jaskier shook his head, fingerspelling something he hadn’t known how to sign yet.

_N-O-T T-I-R-E-D_

He doesn’t spell anything else, but as he tilted his head to the side, there was a clear message in his eyes.

_“Keep going.”_

And so, Geralt did.

They stopped at another town the next day, finding it just past mid-day. There were no mages there who had any clue how to cure Jaskier’s predicament, unfortunately, but the townsfolk were nice enough, and the inn was cheap enough that the two of them could afford a night there. Geralt didn’t care much about a roof over his own head, though - just over Jaskier’s.

Geralt took a look at the notice board and found a contract for a pack of nekkers on the town’s outskirts. Simple enough - he’d be back by morning. He expected that dealing with the nekkers would go well into the night, so he paid for a room with just one bed for Jaskier.

“Patrons or staff shouldn’t bother you,” Geralt assured Jaskier, who sat at a wooden desk at the corner of the room near the window, just stable enough not to be called rickety. The Witcher himself was in the process of choosing what unnecessary items should stay in the room while he went on his hunt and making sure every piece of his armor was placed correctly, “None of the staff know any sign, but I told them you’ll use writing if you need to talk to them. This contract'll probably stretch into the night, so I should be back by morning.”

Jaskier understood, having slipped upstairs to their room as soon as Geralt was done paying for it, quick as to avoid being recognized, though that was hard in a sky-blue doublet, pair of high-waisted trousers, and face mask. He was lucky that none of the patrons recognized him as the Witcher’s bard, and he made a note to Geralt that they’d have to come up with some good excuse for him being unable to perform, for showing them the stitches would be a ghastly sight.

It was already a ghastly enough sight for Jaskier whenever he saw his mask-less reflection. The first time it happened, he was walking with Geralt when he walked past a puddle. He couldn't turn his head away fast enough, and it took all he had to keep both his bile down and his tears back.

Anyway, here he sat, drumming his fingers as Geralt checked over his armor. The bard wished _he_ were the one checking each piece, giving the armor a good once-over, being so close to Geralt that he could smell that scent so unique to him…

But he wasn’t. He was sitting there. And Geralt was heading out for a contract and wouldn’t be back until the morning.

And Jaskier would be here. By himself.

It wasn’t like that was a problem. Not _really._ He wasn’t dependent on Geralt. The only real inconvenience of the absence was having to use pen and paper - or rather, quill or charcoal and parchment - because Geralt wouldn’t be there to voice his signing. Other than that, things would go just as swimmingly without the Witcher as they would with him. Besides, he’d just stay here until he came back. No trouble to be found with that.

So, why was he unhappy? Geralt was only taking this contract for coin that Jaskier couldn’t make! He had no reason to be unhappy! How ungrateful could he be? So what if he was going to be lonely?

...Oh.

That’s it.

He was going to be lonely.

This was going to be the first night he spent without Geralt with him since Arachnir… did _this_ to him, and he was going to be lonely. It all made sense now. It wouldn’t change anything, as Geralt was still going to head out, and Jaskier wasn’t going to stop him just because he didn’t want a lonely night, but it still made sense.

And Jaskier quite liked when things made sense every once in a while.

He realized he still had one more question he wanted to ask Geralt before he left, so he snapped his fingers a few times so Geralt would turn his head - that was something they figured out a few days ago, so Jaskier wouldn’t have to walk over to Geralt to get his attention any time he wanted to talk to the Witcher while he was nearby and unawares.

“Hmm?” Geralt turned both his head and his attention to Jaskier, having just finished checking over his armor for the hunt.

Jaskier touched his knuckles together with his palms down, and rolled his hands forward until his palms faced up.

_“How…”_

He pointed both his index fingers and rolled them forward over each other, making sure one was always behind the other - almost like a game of leapfrog.

_“Do you sign…”_

He fingerspelled what he wanted to know.

_“I love you?”_

For a moment, Geralt didn’t move, looking at Jaskier’s hands - and after a beat, his eyes - in surprise, like he just asked how to sign an abhorrent curse word (and those came later).

Immediately, Jaskier wanted to backtrack, his hands struggling to find the right signs.

He closed all his fingers on his left hand and rubbed it in a circle over his chest.

_“Sorry!”_

He pointed to himself as Geralt walked over to him, his finger shaking so much that it was like visual stammering.

_“I-I-I-”_

“It’s alright, Jaskier.” Geralt said as he stood in front of him, “Hold out your hand.”

Jaskier did as he was told, holding out an outstretched palm, not having the slightest of clues why the Witcher asked this of him.

Geralt knelt down on one knee and gently repositioned Jaskier’s hand until his palm faced forward and his fingers pointed upward. Jaskier let him, nearly mesmerized by how gentle the Witcher’s calloused hands were, amber eyes focused on the hand he held in his own; he watched Geralt curl a few of his own fingers around Jaskier’s middle and ring finger, curling them inward until the fingertips touched the middle of Jaskier’s palm.

Geralt let his hand slip down, gently curling his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist as he kept his hand in that position. He turned his gaze from Jaskier’s hand to his eyes.

“That’s the sign.”

Oh, so that was it. He was just moving his hand into the right shape for the sign. Of course, Jaskier told himself, this was how he could show him the sign for “I love you” without actually signing it to him.

 _Of course,_ Jaskier thought, _he would never want to say that to me, even if it’s just to teach me the sign._

The bard nodded in understanding, but Geralt let both his gentle grip on Jaskier’s wrist and his gaze into his eyes linger for a moment until he stood up.

“I should head out. Stay safe for me.”

With that, he left for the day.

And Jaskier was left alone, with his hand still in that same position. He let it linger for a moment, wishing that someday, he could convey its meaning to Geralt - _“I love you.”_ \- and think that maybe, just maybe, Geralt would convey that same meaning back to him.

 _I shouldn’t delude myself._ Jaskier thought.

* * *

The sun had just set, and Jaskier, now donning only his chemise and trousers, sat in bed with his back against the headboard, using the old charcoal sticks he had to try to write a journal entry, his mask dangling on one of his ears by one strap when he heard footsteps. Not sure whose they were, he put his mask on all the way so as to not scare some poor, unassuming innkeeper with the sight of his mouth.

When the door opened, however, he found he didn’t need to worry, for the person in that doorway was the only person he ever trusted to see him mask-less: Geralt.

Jaskier took his mask off and set it on the nightstand next to him, along with his journal and charcoal. The Witcher looked unscathed, if not just a bit sweaty from his fight.

 _“How was the fight?”_ he signed.

Geralt tilted his head as he closed the door behind him, unsure of why he was asking for a moment; usually, Jaskier wanted to know about Geralt’s fights so he could write songs about them, but songwriting was simply a painful reminder for Jaskier right now, so…

 _He’s curious, idiot._ Geralt thought. _He just wants to know how it went, you fucking dumbass._

“The nekkers were easy enough to kill when I found them.” He told Jaskier, “Kept hiding, though. Burrowy little fuckers.”

Jaskier nodded before he tilted his head.

 _“You said the contract would go into the night, so you'd be back by morning. You’re back early.”_ he signed, raising his brows a bit.

“I didn’t think the contract would be over with this early.” Geralt told him, “I just wanted to let you know I’m going to make camp outside of town. On the outskirts. I’ll come here in the morning, then we can-”

Before he thought to stop himself, Jaskier pointed to Geralt, closed all of his fingers on his left hand but his thumb, and brushed his thumb forward from underneath his chin, shaking his head as he moved his hand forward. Then he closed all the fingers on his left hand except for a hooked index finger, which he brought down in front of him in a quick motion.

_“You don’t need to!”_

Geralt, exhausted but nonetheless surprised, blinked his eyes a few times as he tilted his head.

“What?”

Jaskier scooted to one side of the bed, leaving the other open for him in invitation.

“Jaskier…” Geralt sighed, “You don’t need to do that for me.”

The bard pointed to him, and fingerspelled a few words he didn’t know the signs for - “deserve” and “bed”.

_“You deserve a bed!”_

He pointed to himself, outstretched all of his left hand’s fingers, and touched his thumb to his chest. He closed all of his fingers on the same hand but his pinky finger and touched his cheek with it’s fingertip, just underneath his eye, and ended his statement by pointing to Geralt.

_“I’m fine if you are.”_

Geralt looked at the bard for a minute, cast his gaze down, and turned it to the view outside the window, showing him his less-than-comfortable alternative on the village’s outskirts.

“...Are you sure?”

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt looked down for another beat…

“...Alright.” he directed his gaze back to Jaskier, “I need to take off my armor.”

Jaskier felt a weight come off his shoulders. His first night without Geralt since the stitches wasn’t going to be tonight, after all. Not wanting to seem like he was waiting for Geralt to join him in bed, he got settled on his right side, closing his eyes as he faced the other side of the bed, trying to suppress the contentment he felt as he listened to the _clink-clangs_ of the Witcher removing his armor.

 _We’re only sharing for lack of another bed._ Jaskier told himself. _Nothing else. He doesn’t want anything beyond a proper place to sleep. You just happen to share it._

Still, as he heard Geralt’s heavy footsteps approach the bed and felt the mattress shift under the Witcher’s weight, he couldn’t deny the peace he felt. He still kept his eyes shut, but he could smell the “death, destiny, heroics, heartbreak, and onion” scent that was so unique to the Witcher who had unknowingly rendered him completely and utterly enamored, and he was glad the Witcher didn’t stink of nekkar guts and corpse-segments. Perhaps he’d washed off in a pond or something before coming back?

 _I wish I could wash off with him…_ Jaskier thought.

 _Stop yearning, you dumb fucking bard._ He thought right after that.

Blending with the sound of rustling leaves outside the window and the murmurs of dwindling inn patrons downstairs, he could hear Geralt hum, comforted by the mattress that proved far more comfortable than the bedroll he would have slept on that night instead, placed on the forest ground.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.” Geralt said, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

 _“G’night.”_ Jaskier fingerspelled. He knew how to sign “good night”, but he chose to fingerspell the more informal phrase instead.

Soothed by the Witcher’s presence, Jaskier was asleep within moments.

* * *

Geralt, unlike Jaskier, was _not_ asleep within moments. Rather, he stared up at the wooden ceiling of the room, listening to Jaskier’s slow, deep breaths. Geralt just spent the afternoon and evening brutally slaying monsters, and now, as the sky grew dim, he lay with a lovely bard sleeping peacefully at his side. How could Jaskier feel so peaceful beside him was a mystery he could never hope to solve. Especially not when there was a greater mystery that he needed to solve for Jaskier.

Who could fix what that spider did to him?

No one in this village knew anything about how to break spells like the one on that thread. There weren’t any mages in this town, so such wasn’t surprising, but that didn’t stop something like lead from pooling in his gut.

It had already been five days. Five days since Geralt found Jaskier bound to that chair with disgusting webbing, shaking with his head hanging down and blood on his chemise, whimpering and sobbing muffled sobs because _that was all he could fucking do._ Five days since he last heard Jaskier speak. Five days since that horrible night in the woods, since he vowed that he’d search the whole continent if it meant finding someone who could fix this.

It was impossible for doubt _not_ to set in.

_What if that spider was right? What if there’s no one out there who can reverse this? What if the thread can only come out by…_

The image in his mind - the thread pulling through Jaskier’s flesh, blood pouring from new slices in his mutilated lips - made bile nearly jump into his throat. No. It wouldn’t come to that. Ever. They’d find someone who could remove it without causing any more damage. They had to. _He_ had to. Geralt made the choice, however unwittingly, to prolong Jaskier’s suffering with a stab to that spider’s gut and a slice across his throat, so he had to find someone, _anyone_ who would reverse this.

And he was going to. Damn it, he was going to fucking fix this.

He turned his head, fearing that turning his whole body onto his side would disturb Jaskier, and watched the bard, looking at how still those long lashes of his were, and how his hair rested over his forehead. Then, he looked just behind the bard and saw Jaskier’s mask laying on the nightstand. He didn’t understand why Jaskier would always take his mask off if he and Geralt were alone; he didn’t deserve the intimacy of being the only person Jaskier trusted to see him without his mask - he was the reason he even had to fucking _wear_ it.

He looked at the stitches that went up and down Jaskier’s lips like the bars of a cell, imprisoning his voice behind them. He always tried to avoid staring at them while Jaskier was awake, but right now, he couldn’t help it. The punctures were healing around the thread, and thankfully, there were no signs of potential infection. Good. At least they didn’t have that fucking problem going for them right now.

He looked back up at the ceiling; he couldn’t look at the thread anymore. Not right now. But still, he thought about it - about the day it would finally be fucking _gone._

 _Someone out there will fix what he did to you, Jaskier._ He thought. _We’ll find them, and they’ll fix this. Then, you won’t have to cover your beautiful face with a mask…_

His breathing slowed.

... _or avoid the crowds you love playing for so much…_

His eyelids grew heavy.

_...and you can sleep with as many noblewomen as you’d like._

As Geralt finally let exhaustion claim him for the night, he had no idea that Jaskier didn’t want some noblewoman, but one Witcher whom he couldn’t think of as anything _but_ noble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account!


	14. Charcoal Sticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier asks Geralt a question; Jaskier takes up a new hobby; Geralt and Jaskier encounter a gang of bandits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo, everyone! I hope everyone who has started school again is having an amazing semester! I had a bit of time off from classes these past few days, and inspiration really hit me this week, so I figured I'd get this out there before I head back to uni work! Enjoy!  
> [CW: This chapter has some ~stabbings~ and mentions of Geralt not eating as much as he should.]

It had been a week since the stitches, and Geralt, Jaskier, and Roach were on the road again - specifically, and unsurprisingly, another forest trail - when they’d stopped mid-day in a clearing. The sun shined in the cloud-peppered sky, and a gentle breeze whistled through rich, green leaves. It was peaceful, quite peaceful. The perfect place for Roach to rest and chew on some grass and for Jaskier to stop and eat.

Not Geralt, though. The Witcher was going another break without eating again, Jaskier noticed as he sipped up some rabbit stew, his straw wedged comfortably enough between the stitch furthest to the right side of his mouth and the right corner of his mouth itself. Geralt had shown Jaskier how to prepare meals with their new supplies, but, as the bard came to think of it, he hadn’t seen Geralt eat around him since their breakfast before going out to that cave.

 _I can’t believe it took this long to notice._ Jaskier immediately berated himself. _An entire week goes by, and only now, you’re realizing you haven’t seen him eat since this started?_

No. This wasn’t the time to berate himself. He saw Geralt resting against a nearby tree - he’d been leading Roach on foot that whole morning, but that was usually never enough to deplete his stamina so much that he’d rest by mid-day, which further worried the bard - and he decided he should go over and address this with the Witcher.

So, now that his bowl was empty of anything he could get through the stitches (there was still some rabbit meat and vegetables in there), he pulled his straw out of the gap in his lips and put it in his bowl. He stood up, no longer sitting up against a surprisingly comfortable tree, and set the supplies by the small fire Geralt built, and walked across the clearing to the Witcher, hooking his mask back over his ears as he did, so as to not scare anyone who may have happened to see them. Geralt had taken off his armor and left on his black, high-waisted trousers, shirt, and boots, and was resting up against a tree just like Jaskier was before, keeping his eyes closed and letting the back of his head lay against the tree as the sun shined on him, reflecting off his hair like the late-winter sun, a rarity of the season, shone on melting snow.

Geralt opened his eyes when the bard approached him, blinking at the bard standing over him and following his movements with his head as Jaskier sat down at his side.

“Jaskier? Is everything alright?” he asked, as if Jaskier was the one to worry about.

Jaskier put the middle finger of his left hand to his temple and pulled it forward from there, curling all his fingers but his pinky and thumb, pointed at Geralt, and shook his head as he touched his fingertips together in a flat “O” shape and gestured over his mouth with the same hand.

_“Why aren’t you eating?”_

“I’m not hungry.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated huff through his nose. He closed all his fingers on his left hand except his middle and index, and poked them against the palm of his right.

_“I mean…”_

He shook his head as he kept only his index and middle finger open on his left hand, but this time he brought it forward from next to his left eye. Again, he pointed to Geralt and made a gesture that obviously referred to eating, and as he couldn’t recall the sign, he fingerspelled the word “since”.

_“I haven’t seen you eat since…”_

He cast his gaze down and gestured to his lips.

_“The day this happened.”_

Curling his thumb over his palm but keeping his other fingers straight, Jaskier tapped the inner side of his left hand against the left side of his face.

_“Breakfast.”_

Geralt cast his gaze down for a moment.

“I’m sorry. I knew what you meant. I shouldn’t have made you draw all that out.” he sighed. Jaskier outstretched the fingers on his right hand and tapped his thumb to his chest.

_“It’s fine.”_

He pointed his finger onto his chin, pointed at Geralt, and pointed to his own chest before he placed a flat hand on it and rubbed in a circle.

_“Tell me. Please.”_

Geralt seemed to take a moment to gather what he wanted to say.

“I’ve been eating when I go on hunts by myself, just…”

Geralt didn’t need to finish that sentence, for Jaskier knew; he’d been eating, just not around him. He dragged the heels of his boots on the grass as he pulled his legs to his chest, hugging them and hanging his head. Of course, it all came back to him; _he_ was the reason Geralt wasn’t eating as much. Who else would inconvenience the Witcher?

“Jaskier, wait,” Geralt shifted around so he knelt in front of the bard, who lifted his head to meet his gaze, “I… it’s… fuck, Jaskier, it’s not you.”

Jaskier blinked, but Geralt hesitated.

“Well, it is, but…”

Jaskier furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he tilted his head. Was he to blame or not?

“I don’t want to eat normally while you can’t.” Geralt told him, the truth pouring out. “You have to do so much just so you don’t go hungry, and any time I’ve thought about eating around you as I usually do… it’s felt wrong. It’s my fault you’re stuck like this, anyway, so I - that’s why I haven’t been eating around you. Until you don’t have to do it like this, it… it’s not right.”

Oh, that was it. Jaskier hadn’t done anything, not really; it was just a case of Geralt’s Ginormous Guilt Complex. Jaskier would have felt relieved at not being the source of the problem, if it weren’t for the problem’s continued existence.

 _“Please eat.”_ Jaskier pleaded. Geralt was still hesitant. _“I’m not envious, if that’s what you’re scared of.”_

“Jaskier, wouldn’t it hurt? Seeing me eat while you have to take what you can through a straw?”

Jaskier looked down, collecting his thoughts.

He made a few circles in the air with his pointed index finger, then pointed both his index fingers toward each other and twisted his wrists in opposite directions, twisting his left hand toward Geralt and his right towards himself.

_“It always hurts.”_

Geralt could practically hear his own heart crack. He knew Jaskier had been at least slightly uncomfortable with his circumstances all week, but to see him sign, with his own hands, that he was in constant pain...

 _“It always hurts. Just a little bit.”_ he explains, _“hearing other bards in the inns and taverns we go through, feeling my lute on my back, clamping my jaw shut every time I start to yawn, looking up at the birds and missing singing like them…”_

For the first time since he started learning sign language, Jaskier rambled, signing what he knew, spelling what he didn’t know how to sign, and gesturing to what he didn’t need to spell out. He wasn’t focused on getting every sign impeccably right, but just expressing himself, focused enough on his own pain that he cast fussing over errors aside.

 _“It always hurts. I’m just living with it.”_ Jaskier signed with glistening eyes. Fuck, Geralt just wanted to take those stitches out, hold him close, and never, ever let go.

“But…”

 _“It hurts more that you’re not eating around me than it would if you did.”_ Jaskier told Geralt, whose expression changed slightly, horrified at the fact that he ended up hurting Jaskier anyway, _“I don’t want you to slow or get weakened in a monster fight because you skipped meals. You’d get killed. Please, Geralt.”_

“...Alright.”

Jaskier looked above the both of them at an overhanging tree branch, stood up, and pulled down a peach, handing it to Geralt.

Geralt looked at the peach in his hands, and then he looked at the peach standing in front of him.

“Peachy.”

Jaskier huffed at the pun.

 _“...Can we stay here a bit longer?”_ Jaskier asked, _“It’s a nice day. We have an hour or to spare, don’t we?”_

Geralt thought for a moment. If they stayed here, the delay could mean not finding an inn by nightfall, and spending a night under the stars. Still, this was the first time Jaskier seemed happy enough about his surroundings to be partial to staying. If he felt content here, why take him from that? Jaskier feeling genuinely content was as rare as a blue moon these days, after all.

“...Of course.” Geralt resolved, “I can find the plants I need to make more potions here, anyway. I used one up on my last contract.”

Jaskier tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. He tapped his temple, pointed to Geralt, put the tip of his index finger to his lips and brought it forward, and brushed his left hand against the back of his right’s fingertips.

_“Thought you said it was easy.”_

“It was, for a contract, but I had to heighten my senses.” Geralt explained, “Had to find the nekkers before they found me.”

Jaskier nodded.

_“I’ve never seen you fight with your potions.”_

Geralt could picture it - Jaskier, seeing Geralt’s ghostly pale face and pitch black eyes, exactly like the soulless voids that were that spider’s eyes, and being reminded of that sadistic tormentor - and he hated the thought.

“That’s a good thing.” he retorted, clipped, “I hope you don’t.”

Jaskier blinks a few times and casts his gaze down, almost looking wounded. Geralt quickly corrected himself.

“If I use a potion, it means I’m fighting a threat - something dangerous, even for me.” the Witcher quickly corrects himself, putting his hand on Jaskier’s bicep as a gentle gesture for Jaskier to look at him, which he does, “If you saw that, it means you’d be close enough to the monster that it would be a threat to you, too. A much greater one than to me. That’s why I hope you don’t see me use a potion - it would mean you’re in danger. I don’t want that, Jaskier.”

There was silence between them for a beat as Jaskier nodded in understanding. Not sure how to otherwise fill the silence, Geralt awkwardly took a bite of the peach.

“Will you be alright here while I gather? It won’t be long.”

Jaskier nodded, so Geralt stepped past him, out of the clearing and into the more condensed forest. Now, Jaskier was just left with himself. And Roach. However, while Geralt’s horse was lovely company, the bard just slightly preferred the company of the witcher himself. Alas, this wasn’t the case.

Jaskier sighed through his nose and walked back across the clearing, sitting down against the same tree he sat against before.

For some reason, it didn’t feel as comfortable as it did before; maybe it wasn’t the feel of the tree that made it comfortable, but it was having his Witcher close.

The peaceful quiet of the forest, filled with the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze and sparing bird calls, was interrupted only by the light _smack_ against Jaskier’s forehead as he put his hand on his face, appalled at his own foolishness.

Roach lifted her head from the grass, which she was munching lazily, and looked at Jaskier for a moment.

Jaskier pointed to himself, closed all his fingers on his left hand except for his index and middle finger, and put the back of that hand against his forehead.

_“I’m an idiot.”_

Roach huffed and went back to munching.

Still, he was glad he didn’t ask Geralt to stay. He obviously had a task to complete, and Jaskier didn’t want to impose by having him stay close to him for comfort. He was fine, he just needed to do something to pass the time. Usually, he’d do so by plucking around with his lute and fumbling with new ballad lyrics, but it still hurt too much to do that now, the lute next to him so close yet so far away. He couldn’t bring himself to play yet.

So, Jaskier had to find another way to kill time, and what was a lonely bard to do?

* * *

Geralt stepped back into the clearing some thirty minutes later, having replenished his supply of herbs. He opened his mouth to announce his return to Jaskier, but when he saw the bard with his knees pulled up close to his chest, staring down in deep concentration as he wrote with his journal against his thighs, Geralt's heart jumped into his throat.

_Fuck. He’s writing another note. He’s having those thoughts again. He wants to - he’s going to try to -_

As a beat of paralyzing worry passed, Geralt saw Jaskier’s gaze shift between his journal and a flower in front of him, a forget-me-not, and by the looks of the way his charcoal stick moved - _He must have pulled out his charcoal again. Does he not wish to use the quill and ink?_ \- his marks weren’t tight and acute, like they would have been if he were writing something, but they were wispy, quick strokes, like he was drawing.

_Oh._

Geralt sighed with relief. That was it. He wasn’t writing another note; he was just drawing.

“Jaskier.” He called across the clearing.

Jaskier lifted his head and looked at the Witcher, the sun shining onto his mask. There seemed to be contentment in the bard’s eyes, like he would have been smiling softly if it weren’t for the stitches the mask was hiding.

“I’m back.” Geralt stated the obvious as he set down his pack. Jaskier nodded and glanced at the spot next to him for a moment, appearing to consider something before he looked back ahead to the Witcher and patted the spot invitingly.

Geralt hummed and approached the bard, carefully sidestepping the flower in front of him as he sat down next to Jaskier.

His eyes fell on the drawing of the forget-me-not at Jaskier’s feet, bundles of petals as blue as the bard’s eyes. His drawing was… lovely. Despite having naught a speck of that striking blue, the black charcoal against Jaskier’s yellowed parchment portrayed the flower before him in such a way that it’s essence could only have been captured more perfectly if Jaskier plucked the forget-me-not from the ground himself and pressed it into the journal. Not one mark was wasted - even askew, sketchy strokes were perfectly imperfect.

“You like drawing.” Geralt said. It wasn’t so much a question so much as it was an observation he awkwardly said aloud. Still, Jaskier didn’t seem to notice such awkwardness, and he nodded.

 _“Sort of picked it up at Oxenfurt.”_ he signed with a light in his eyes, apparently happy to discuss it. _“I don’t do it a lot. I usually focus on music, but…”_

Jaskier’s gaze grew heavy as he cast his eyes to the ground. Geralt’s heart sank with Jaskier’s gaze when he saw Jaskier become so sad so quickly, but before he could change the subject, he started signing again.

 _“It hurts to write music and poetry right now. I know I can’t sing it.”_ he explained, his eyes thankfully never shining with tears that the bard would have to suppress.

Jaskier pointed to his chest, opened all his fingers, and touched his thumb and middle fingers to the middle of his chest before pulling them together as he pulled his hand away, as if plucking something off his shirt. He opened his right hand kept it straight and flat as he closed all his left-handed fingers but his pinky before brushing the tip of his extended pinky against the palm of his hand, as if to mimic making a picture.

_“I like drawing…”_

His eyebrows furrowed just a touch as he thought for a moment to try to find the right signs for something that would have already been plenty complicated to explain in verbal language.

He touched his middle finger to his temple and pulled it away, forming a “y” with his hand as he did, closing all fingers but his thumb and pinky.

_“Because…”_

“You can’t sing a drawing?” Geralt assumed. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest, internally cringing at his attempt to finish the bard’s sentence in a way that may have looked like he was trying to cut Jaskier off. It wasn’t his intention - he just didn’t want Jaskier to struggle to find the right words.

Fortunately, Jaskier didn’t appear irritated in the slightest; rather, he nodded with an unbothered huff as he closed his eyes for a beat. After a second or two, Jaskier pointed at Geralt and curled his index finger in front of his own temple a few times.

_“You understand.”_

Jaskier pointed at Geralt again and pulled his index and middle finger outward from next to his eye.

_“What you see…”_

After he pointed at Geralt this time, he touched his fingertips to both sides of his own chest, his fingers kept together and his hands bent at the first knuckle.

_“...Is what you get.”_

“Hmm.”

A beat passed as they looked down at Jaskier’s drawing. Well, it would have been more accurate to say Jaskier was looking down at his drawing while Geralt was looking at Jaskier. At how stunning he was. At how _lucky_ Geralt was to be this close to someone so precious.

“...Beautiful.”

Jaskier looked up from his drawing and turned his head to look at Geralt, his eyebrows raised and his eyes widened a fraction, the change in expression highlighted by the fact that half his face was hidden (including the blush in his cheeks that his mask concealed).

“Your drawing.” Geralt quickly clarified, “It’s beautiful.”

Jaskier huffed and shook his head sheepishly.

 _“No, no, really, it’s not.”_ he denied, _“There’s a lot of mistakes.”_

“So?” Geralt asked him without missing a beat.

Jaskier tilted his head and looked at him with impossibly soft eyes, as blue as that forget-me-not and the mask that hung over the bridge of his nose.

_Damn it, he’s so cute._

Geralt rested his head back against the tree and looked above them at the sky.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself Jaskier.” he chided, humming as he felt Jaskier shrug his shoulders next to him. As a moment came and went, Geralt felt his eyelids grow heavy.

And there was no better place to nap than next to Jaskier.

Jaskier watched Geralt close his eyes as the sun shined on his face. His heart swelled at the sight of the Witcher resting at his side. He looked so peaceful - so content with being where he was.

 _He looks like a cat._ Jaskier thought. _A cat napping in the sun._

A few moments later, as he listened to the gentle breeze and sparing bird calls again, watching Geralt's chest rise and fall, he decided that the Witcher had the right idea and closed his own eyes.

Challenges for these two were all but ever-present, so it was important to relish in moments of peace whenever they could.

And that’s what they did.

* * *

If there was one thing Jaskier still wasn’t used to, it was silence on the road. When they would go between towns and contracts in the past, he used to alleviate the silence between them - a silence Geralt used to refer to as “blessed” - with endearing songs and seemingly unending rambling, things Geralt regretted ever taking for granted.

Now, the only sounds were those from their surroundings, the _clip-clop_ of Roach’s hooves, and, sometimes, Geralt’s own sparing commentary, something he never really provided before this happened.

_“The next town should be nearby.”_

_“I hear the inn in the next town is lavish.”_

_“If you get weary, let me know. We can switch.”_

Jaskier wasn’t fond of the silence between them, but he didn’t quite think he was fond of Geralt’s attempts to fill it, either. It was awkward, and it only rubbed in the fact that Jaskier couldn’t fill the quiet in the way he always loved. Still, as awkward as Geralt was, Jaskier knew his Witcher meant well; it was sweet, the way he tried to fill the silence, and Jaskier was endeared by his efforts, just like he was endeared by everything about him.

They rarely talked to each other on the road, really; Geralt was usually on Roach, keeping an eye on the trail or pass ahead, so looking down at Jaskier to watch him sign wasn’t something he did often. Besides, Jaskier usually didn’t really find himself in the mood for conversation on the road anyway; before, he’d just ramble naturally, but now, when he had to think through everything he wanted to say and find the right signs for it, he found he wasn’t really incentivised to make small talk.

So, after he and Geralt finished resting in that clearing, Jaskier mostly just fidgeted with his lute strap as Roach clip-clopped down the forest trail.

Geralt took his eyes off the path ahead for just a few seconds to glance at Jaskier, who stared down at the ground as he fidgeted, following his feet with his eyes.

This time a week ago, he’d been singing some improvised tune about getting a rock stuck in his boot. How quickly things changed.

 _If things changed this quickly for the worse,_ Geralt thought, _they can change this quickly for the better, too._

He wasn’t one to tell himself such hopeful things most of the time, but he tried to believe it for Jaskier’s sake.

He opened his mouth to say something when he heard rustling in the woods, grateful for Jaskier’s silence for once this week. His stomach dropped and his jaw snapped shut, his Witcher senses alerting him of a nearby danger. Five nearby dangers, to be exact, clustered in the forest a few yards behind them. Jaskier was unbeknownst to the threat, but Geralt could hear the unsheathing of blades and sneaking, approaching footsteps.

_Bandits._

Geralt hissed a swear through his teeth, spurring Jaskier to look up at him with wide eyes. He didn’t look up for very long though, as the Witcher immediately hopped down from Roach, who trotted a few feet away out of equine caution; his feet hit the ground in seconds.

Jaskier's eyebrows furrowed as he formed a "y" with his left hand, closing all his fingers but his thumb and pinky, and tapped his knuckles against his chin with his palm facing himself.

_"What's wrong?"_

Geralt was going to answer when a bandit did it for him, running towards the both of them with a knife. The Witcher could see him over Jaskier’s shoulder, and he knew by the way the bandit reached out with his free hand that he wanted to grab Jaskier. Probably to make him a hostage so Geralt wouldn’t resist having his supplies and coin stolen.

_Fuck. No._

Geralt pushed Jaskier away swiftly, sending him staggering to the left and ignoring the way his heart panged at the bard’s surprised, muffled squeak as he pulled out his sword in one fluid motion and sent his blade into the bandit’s chest with a _squelch_ , the repulsive sound of metal gutting flesh and bone. The Witcher snarled as the light left the man’s eyes and his dagger fell to the ground. He pressed one foot against the corpse’s chest and pulled out his sword, huffing.

Realizing what his companion had just witnessed, Geralt snapped his head up and looked at Jaskier. The bard stared at the corpse with saucer eyes, shaking as he brought a hand to his mouth. Geralt felt his mouth go dry when he saw the bard’s sheer horror.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighed, feeling undeserving of even speaking his name.

Jaskier shifted his gaze from the corpse to Geralt, but not one bit of terror left his eyes. His torso convulsed, as if he'd retched, and before Geralt could even try to explain himself, Jaskier turned around and ran stumbling into the woods.

“Jaskier! Wait!” Geralt called out, his heart sinking.

Fuck. That was it.

After everything that happened to the both of them, after everything Jaskier had accepted about the Witcher, after everything Geralt did to deserve that acceptance, Jaskier had finally run away from him.

The Witcher sighed, hanging his head as he hissed out another curse word. He shouldn’t have been so upset, he thought; he was lucky Jaskier didn’t leave him after he told him about Blaviken. About Renfri. He brought this on himself.

He snapped his head up and saw the four remaining bandits come out of hiding and look onto the scene with horror and rage that Geralt could sense even from the distance he stood away from them.

The Witcher raised his bloodied sword again with heavy eyes.

Even if he destroyed Jaskier’s trust in him, Geralt still had a chance to make sure this gang didn’t hurt anyone anymore, like they would have hurt his bard.

_No, not yours. He’ll never be yours._

The bandits charged at him.

He took three of them down easily, dodging clumsy dagger thrusts, blocking sword blows dealt with no precision. These men were blinded by anger at what had been done to their friend, pushing them to rash, destructive decisions. He was no stranger to such things; he was as familiar with the feeling, in fact, as Jaskier’s dagger was used to the feeling of Arachnir’s blood, and as Jaskier’s muffled sobs were used to their place in Geralt’s own nightmares.

Three men were cut down in moments, all with three blows or less, but Geralt fighting more with muscle memory and instinct than actual focus allowed the last surviving bandit to get the upper hand.

Well, specifically, he got _two_ upper hands around Geralt’s throat.

Geralt staggered back, unprepared for this attack, and felt his back hit a tree as he got pinned. His sword fell out of his hand, and he was too busy trying to pry the hands off his throat to reach for his silver sword on his back.

So, this is how Geralt would die; choked out by a bandit after scaring away the person who meant the most to him. How pathetically fitting.

As Geralt glared at the rage-fuelled bandit, he saw him avert his gaze for just a second to look at something behind Geralt. The Witcher couldn’t rightly turn around to look, but his instincts told him to close his eyes, so that’s what he did.

When he heard the sounds of the bandit grunting and glass shattering, he was glad he trusted his instincts.

He could feel specks of glass hit his face, but not enough to cut him. The next thing he felt, thankfully, was the bandit's hands coming away from his throat. He gasped now that he could breathe again, and he opened his eyes to see that he was the only one of the two who _could_ open his eyes, for a huge black splotch spread over the bandit’s eyes, covering them temple-to-temple as he kept them shut. He fervently started rubbing his eyes, giving Geralt an opportunity he had no choice but to seize. 

The Witcher dipped to his right and grabbed his steel sword that lay on the ground, bending for naught but a second before he shot back up and plunged his sword into the bandit’s gut.

He crumpled to the ground in seconds, dead.

Finally having a moment to breathe, Geralt sheathed his sword and stepped over the body. He looked to all the heaped corpses that lay in heaps in the blood-soaked pass, but something on the final bandit’s body confused him: the ink splotched onto the corpse’s face, blinding him in a way that would have been temporary, had it not been for the permanence of his death.

_Where did this come from?_

He drew his eyes to something else just a few feet ahead, next to the tree he nearly asphyxiated against. He made out more ink in the grass, but there was something else, something that seemed to glisten in the sunlight.

The shattered remnants of a bottle of ink.

_Who would have just thrown a bottle of ink? Who else is even on this trail, let alone with ink on hand?_

...Wait.

He thought back to that day Jaskier passed out, and he rode to the next town for help. He bought a bottle of ink for Jaskier there, along with a goose-feather quill, and gave them to him as gifts.

_...No, it couldn’t be._

Still, some part of him, however idiotic he thought it was, wanted to think wishfully. So, he stepped back into the middle of the pass and called out…

“Jaskier?”

He heard something move in the trees, so he whipped his head to the right, trying to suppress his hope until…

Jaskier peeked out from behind a tree a bit further down the pass, wide-eyed and completely unharmed. Well, he may have still been scared and disgusted with the Witcher, but at least he was safe.

Jaskier closed all his fingers and pointed the back of his hands outward before he flipped the both of them, twirling his hands so his now-open palms faced Geralt.

_“Is it over?”_

As he still took deep breaths and reeled from the fight, Geralt nodded.

Jaskier motioned for Geralt to come to him.

The Witcher figured that Jaskier didn’t want to be near him ever again, so this was obviously a shock.

“Can’t you come over here?” Geralt asked, suspicious that some other bandit may have been behind Jaskier, and that the bard was luring him into more danger under duress.

Jaskier shook his head. He pulled his index and middle finger outward from next to his eye, tapped his nose, and gestured to the corpses he averted his gaze from.

_“Seeing and smelling the bodies…”_

He brushed the middle finger of his left hand against his chest a few times before touching it to his head, putting his other middle finger on his stomach.

_“...makes me feel sick.”_

...Oh.

Geralt took Roach’s lead - she’d avoided the fight due to her most immaculate self-preservation skills and was entirely unscathed - and headed down the trail to where Jaskier stood. Thankfully, there was no sixth bandit using him as a hostage; no, there was just a fidgeting, shaken-up bard. Jaskier filled the remaining space between them by walking right up to him, which still somewhat confused the Witcher who watched him run away from him only minutes before.

A beat passed as Jaskier seemed to relax at the sight of the Witcher.

“You’re usually not fazed when I kill monsters, Jaskier.” Geralt told him.

He clawed his fingers as his palms faced out to Geralt, closed all his left hand’s fingers but his thumb and brushed it out from under his chin, and touched two flat hands to their own respective shoulders, and then to his hips.

_“Monsters, not humans.”_

“They _were_ monsters, Jaskier.” Geralt argued, “They wanted to hurt you.”

Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes.

 _“You know what I mean.”_ he signed, _“I… the smell, the blood… it all made me start to feel sick.”_

“And that’s why you ran.” Geralt said, letting it all piece together in his head. Of course he’d run away if the sight before him made him nauseous; after all, mixing nausea with the inability to open his mouth without horrifically tearing his lips up would surely have ended in nothing but disaster.

Jaskier nodded to affirm this, but then, he tilted his head to the side and looked at Geralt with a clear question in mind.

_“Why did you think I ran?”_

Geralt took a breath and drew his lips into a thin line, hesitant to say the answer.

“I…”

The bard’s curious blue eyes quelled his hesitation.

“I thought it was me.” he confessed. When he saw Jaskier draw his head back in confusion, he continued, “You saw me kill that man. I thought you'd hated me for it, and you didn’t want to be near me anymore. I thought you ran from _me._ ”

Jaskier’s gaze softened, his eyebrows upturning at the mere _thought_ of running from the Witcher as he shook his head.

He straightened his left hand, extending four of his fingers upwards and directing his thumb towards himself, and brought it down in a sort of “s” motion.

_“Never.”_

Fuck, Geralt wanted that to be true more than anything. He wanted Jaskier to always be with him, to never see Geralt like the monster so many crude villagers and deplorable nobles thought he was…

...but he couldn’t let himself believe it.

“...Hmm,” Geralt hummed, noncommittal, “And that’s why you threw your ink, isn’t it?”

Jaskier nodded, pride in those blue, blue eyes.

_“I wanted to help! And it worked!”_

Geralt let the corner of his mouth curl and smirked at the bard’s rightful pride.

“It did. You saved my life.”

Jaskier furrowed his eyebrows in mock confusion and darted his eyes around, turning his head to the right and putting his hand around his left ear, obviously faking that he didn’t hear Geralt.

The Witcher huffed through his nose, still smirking.

“Pushing it.”

Jaskier shrugged and dropped it with a stifled laugh.

“Looks like you’ll need new ink, then.” Geralt changed the subject, “I can find some in the next town.”

Jaskier cast his gaze down as he fidgeted with his lute strap again. Geralt knew something was bothering him.

“I promise, it’s not an inconvenience to-”

 _“Not that.”_ Jaskier quickly clarified as he shook his head.

“Then…”

A few beats passed until Jaskier lifted his head again.

 _“...Charcoal?”_ he fingerspelled.

Geralt tilted his head, an obvious cue for elaboration.

_“It’s easier to use for drawing than ink, and it’s easier to use on the road.”_

Geralt nodded as Jaskier explained, happy that Jaskier enjoyed drawing enough to want the right supplies for it.

“I can look for that at the next market instead, then.” Geralt resolved. “It’s usually cheaper than ink, anyway. Even if it weren’t… whatever makes you happy.”

_...Whatever makes me happy?_

What would have made him happy was spending the rest of his life with Geralt, singing beautiful ballads for his beloved and waking up every morning with him, peppering his Witcher with sleepy good morning kisses.

What would have made him happy was kissing him for good luck before every contract and kissing him after each one to welcome him home.

What would have made him happiest rambling about the most menial things to his lover and finding contentment in comfortable silence, not silence that only came about from his speech being impeded.

What made Jaskier happiest was right in front of him, but to Jaskier, it was also impossibly far away.

...So, he supposed new charcoal sticks would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you liked this chapter! It almost feels like filler, but I like having chapters that show soft/peaceful moments for these two (because they DESERVE IT)  
> (well the bandit thing wasn't peaceful but most of this chapter outside of that was soft sO-)  
> Next chapter will probably be a *bit* heavier than these past two, and I can't wait to put it up! Hopefully uni goes smoothly this semester, so I don't have to take so long to make chapters. Fingers crossed! <3  
> Find me on Tumblr! @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account


	15. The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too far from an inn on a night too stormy to sleep out in the open, Geralt and Jaskier must take a less than optimal choice for shelter. When left alone while Geralt collects wood, Jaskier struggles to stay calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo! Surprise, a new chapter that's not coming out a month after the last one! I kinda figured a new chapter would be nice right now (especially after the rumors from RI about [REDACTED]), and I had a little bit of time to spare from school! This chapter's (more than) a little heavier than the mostly-soft past few chapters, but I still hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> CW: Panic attack, light CW for Self-Harm (Jaskier pulls at his hair during a panic attack.)

There were a number of factors that led Geralt and Jaskier to their dilemma tonight.

Maybe dealing with those bandits took up valuable time. Maybe Geralt underestimated the distance to the next inn, or perhaps what he underestimated was the thick clouds forming overhead - maybe it was both?

Maybe the two of them rested in that clearing for too long earlier that day.

Jaskier hated the thought; of course, peaceful, beautiful moment be damned, he shouldn’t have asked Geralt if they could stay there a while, that constantly-anxious part of him lectured. So what if it was a day almost as beautiful as his Witcher? So what if he’d finally felt some sense of contentment being there for a bit? It was a waste of daylight in Jaskier’s eyes, landing them where they were now.

Here, to be exact, was the rocky path the two walked along in hopes of finding a somewhat adequate shelter, the quickly darkening sky and thick, conglomerating clouds providing a sense of… atmospheric urgency, so to speak. Roach, led by a cloaked Geralt, had grown tired and was in no right condition to get them to the next town until morning; the Witcher knew such an effort would be fruitless anyway, as by the time they found a town, their inn would likely be closed.

Roach wasn’t the only one who was growing tired.

As he kept walking just a few steps behind Geralt, Jaskier crossed his arms and rubbed his hands over his doublet sleeves, fighting off the growing chill. As grateful as he always was for his mask - not only was it a gift from Geralt, but it gave him security in the fact that no one would see his stitches and be as repulsed by them as he was (no, no, he guaranteed he was more repulsed than anyone else could have been) - he was especially grateful for it right now; it kept his face warm, and thus, it stopped his teeth from chattering, which, considering the thread strung through his lips radiated discomfort at the slightest tug, and downright pain at anything stronger, was quite useful.

But it wasn’t as useful at suppressing yawns.

One of his eyes pinched shut and his shoulders tightened to the point where they almost touched his ears as he clenched his jaw as tightly as he could, fighting the involuntary stretching of his throat and unwanted attempt of his mouth to open for the fourth time in the past five minutes.

He suppressed the yawn successfully, but not without making a small noise that spurred Geralt to look over his shoulder at the bard. He knew what happened immediately, Jaskier’s tightened shoulders and glistening eyes being indication enough, and he hummed. Of course he did.

What Jaskier didn’t expect, however, was for Geralt to stop walking and reach into Roach’s saddlebag.

“Come here. I have an idea.” Geralt asked with his back turned to him as he kept digging around.

Jaskier did what the Witcher asked of him, hustling a few steps further until he was shoulder to shoulder with Geralt, watching him rummage until he pulled out a long, white strip of cloth, the purpose of which was entirely lost to the bard.

Geralt turned to face Jaskier.

“Clench your jaw.” The Witcher urged. Jaskier furrowed his eyebrows.

 _“Why?”_ he signed cautiously.

Geralt took a moment to answer, as if internally berating himself for sounding so commanding, especially without telling the bard what he asked this of him for.

“Wrapping this around your head might do well to keep your jaw shut. It’ll stop your mouth from trying to open whenever a yawn comes on. Would that be alright?”

Now that Jaskier understood his Witcher’s intentions, the thought of not fearing the shredding of his lips every time a yawn came on sounded quite lovely, considering Geralt had a way of preventing such a thing. Honestly, why didn’t one of them think of this sooner?

(Because they were both idiots more often than they weren’t.)

Jaskier nodded and tightened his jaw, crossing his arms for warmth’s sake.

Geralt hummed and pulled both ends of the cloth until it was taught and pressed it underneath Jaskier’s chin. The bard himself kept his head still, suppressing the tightening of his gut as he too suppressed the quickly-arising memory of Arachnir spreading that webbing under his chin to clamp his jaw shut back at that cabin and not pulling it away until he tied the fucking thread off.

 _No. No. This isn’t that. I’m not there._ He told himself, despite his racing heart. _This isn’t him. This is Geralt. I’m safe._

“You alright?” Geralt asked, pausing his movement. He must have sensed the way his heartbeat quickened, Jaskier thought.

Jaskier nodded minutely.

Geralt brought both sides of the cloth up before he gathered them atop Jaskier’s head, making a knot that would be easy for Jaskier to take off if he wanted, making sure it wasn’t dreadfully tight.

The bard kept his eyes on a wrinkle in Geralt’s forehead, pushing down the urge to stare at those amber eyes as they focused on the top of his head. He didn’t want this to be awkward, no matter how much staring into the Witcher’s eyes would have kept him calm.

Finally, Geralt finished the knot and brought his hands down.

“You can relax your jaw now.” Jaskier hadn’t realized it was still tight, so he did. His jaw stayed shut, but the cloth’s tightness was enough that it was firm, but not so much that it caused him discomfort or pain.

“Is it alright?” Geralt asked, “Not too tight?”

Jaskier nodded. Still, Geralt leaned forward and tilted his head as he looked at the bard. Jaskier was quite confused as to the reason for this - not to mention how fortunate he was, yet again, for his mask to have hid his blushing - until Geralt flicked one of the ends of the cloth that stuck up from the knot.

“...Like a rabbit.”

Jaskier huffed a little, his eyes growing heavier.

“I know you’re tired. We should keep going until we find some shelter.” Geralt told him. He continued to lead Roach, and Jaskier fell in sidestep.

The Witcher’s urgency was not misplaced; the reason for it was the same reason they couldn’t just settle for a normal night in a clearing.

That is, there weren’t any stars out tonight to sleep under; rather, the rolling, thick clouds forming overhead in the night sky and the dropping temperature were indication enough that there would be a massive storm tonight - nothing like the rain the two dealt with when this all started - with torrential downpour that, even with a campfire, would have left Jaskier horribly drenched and probably brought about a cold.

For obvious reasons, this was unfavorable.

So, Geralt was intent on finding adequate shelter before the storm hit, and since this was for Jaskier’s own benefit, the bard quite hoped to find adequate shelter as well.

He… well… he just really, _really_ hoped that the cave Geralt stopped in front of was not what the Witcher had in mind.

It was a massive, gaping maw of a thing. It thankfully didn’t go underground, from what Jaskier could see - which wasn’t very much, considering the way night was already falling - but it went into the base of the small mountain the two had been walking alongside.

(No, no, not _that_ mountain. Just a normal mountain.)

Jaskier couldn’t see anything but darkness from the opening. He hoped that there weren’t any monsters in there, and he hoped even more that they wouldn’t get the chance to find out if there were.

He turned his head to look at Geralt, who stared into the cave with a transfixed gaze and tilted his head to the side.

 _Please, Geralt._ Jaskier thought, practically begging silent pleas. _Please tell me we’re just going to move along._

“...There’s no monsters. This should be fine.”

_BOLLOCKS._

Jaskier staggered back a few steps and shook his head.

Geralt turned his head to look at the skittish bard.

“Jaskier, there’s no other choice.” he told him, matter-of-fact, as if that made him feel any more enticed. Still, he didn’t want to make things difficult for Geralt, so he stepped forward again timidly. If the Witcher was this adamant about it, why cause any trouble? He wasn’t going to be some weak, cowardly, sniveling inconvenience if he could help it. It was already his fault that they got caught out here like this before a storm.

 _Suck it up, Jask._ he told himself. _Suck it up._

Geralt’s expression softened at the bard’s timidity. Fuck. He said that too hastily; he now realized how much his words sounded like an order.

“Jaskier,” he tilted his head to the side and looked the bard in the eyes, “I know it’s not ideal, but the storm is going to start any minute. Do you think it’d be a good idea to keep looking for something nicer and end up getting caught in the downpour?”

Geralt wasn’t being rhetorical or sarcastic, Jaskier realized. He was trying to rationalize this, to reason away Jaskier’s worry; the point was for the bard to realize for himself that there really was no preferable alternative.

And as the thought of getting sick and incessantly stopping himself from sneezing crossed his mind -

Or worse, his nose stuffing up so he’d have to use his straw to breathe - 

Or worse yet, needing to _vomit_ \- 

He saw the sense in Geralt’s choice.

To his Witcher’s question, he shook his head.

“It’ll just be until the storm clears in the morning.” Geralt reassured him, putting his hands on Jaskier’s arms, “I already checked - there’s nothing harmful in there.”

Jaskier tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, a question in his expression he hoped Geralt could figure out.

“Witcher senses.” Geralt affirmed, “I used them to sense if there was anything in that cave that could hurt you, and there’s not.”

Jaskier slowly nodded in comprehension. Still, Geralt wanted to continue reassuring him, so he rubbed the fabric of his doublet with his thumbs.

“Jaskier, I wouldn’t propose this if I had any doubt you’d be safe. There’s nothing in there that could hurt you. I promise.”

There was a softness to his voice now, a softness that made that deep roughness even more beautiful than it already was. So _fucking_ beautiful.

Jaskier only wished he could hear it in better circumstances.

As it was, he looked Geralt in his eyes and nodded. He extended his index finger and curled it up and down in front of his temple.

 _“I understand.”_ he signed.

Geralt put his hands down - Jaskier almost thought he hesitated, but brushed it off as just his foolish yearning, making him feel fake things - and turned his head again. This time, Jaskier looked in the same direction as Geralt, right at the mouth of the cave, where Roach trotted right in.

“Roach seems fine with it, at least.” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier huffed.

_“That horse could keep her cool even if the world was ending.”_

“I don’t think she’d let it end. No more apples.”

Jaskier widened his eyes and put his hands over his masked (and stitched-shut) mouth in mock shock. Geralt let the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as tilted his head again.

“It would be tragic indeed.”

He turned around and walked into the cave, Jaskier following behind him.

The bard put his hand along the wall, figuring that staying alongside the cave wall would be better than standing in the middle of the cave, considering how much he couldn’t see. Geralt tied off Roach’s lead on a rock formation that made a good makeshift post.

But he didn't keep her tied; it looked like he was just testing if it would be a good post, and that suspicion was confirmed when he untied the lead and mumbled something that sounded like, "Yeah, that should be good when we come back."

...Come back?

Jaskier looked at the mouth of the cave, the only source of light he could find, which was growing darker and darker by the minute. He saw Geralt’s hooded silhouette face the cave’s opening, his back turned to Jaskier as he looked out at the forest outside, just beyond the short width of the trail they’d walked on.

Jaskier’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t going to… he couldn’t…

“Jaskier.” He turned around to face the bard, and Jaskier could tell what he dreaded hearing was exactly what he was about to hear.

“We need a fire.” Geralt explained. “The storm will start any minute. We need wood and kindling while they’re still dry, but I don’t want you to get caught in the storm.”

Jaskier couldn’t see the Witcher very well, but the exhale through his nose and the way his shoulders dropped were indications enough that he’d sighed, no doubt in preparation for what he was about to ask.

“Can you stay in here by yourself? It won’t be long.”

Jaskier’s heart dropped.

_No. No. No. I can’t. Not here. Not alone. Please._

But as soon as his fear spiked, so did his self-consciousness.

_...Fuck it._

_I’m why we’re out of an inn tonight anyway, making us stay in that clearing and all that._

_I might as well suck it up._

Despite the way almost every part of his mind _screamed_ that he couldn’t stay here by himself, Jaskier nodded.

 _“I’ll be fine.”_ he signed, his hand’s shaking in a way he hoped Geralt would just pass off as being due to the cold.

“...Hmm."

Geralt left the cave with Roach, leaving Jaskier alone.

_Fuck._

Jaskier pressed his back to the wall of the cave and lowered himself into a sitting position, careful not to drag his back down the wall. This doublet was expensive, damn it.

It was fine.

He could barely see anything around him, and what he _could_ see outside was slipping further and further into darkness, just like his Witcher slipped out of sight but it was fine. If something went wrong - if the cave fell in - if there’s a monster in here Geralt missed - if some bandits were actually hiding out in here and Geralt didn’t sense them - he had no way of calling out for help, but it was fine.

There was next to nothing he could listen to beyond the wind blowing, his own breathing, and his fingers drumming against the stone ground, but that was fine. One of the _only_ other things he could hear right now was the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, but it was fine.

He was completely fucking _alone_ right now as a horrendous storm was set to start any minute, but it was fine. He couldn’t tell if he was shaking due to the chill surrounding him or the anxiety that seemed to run through every damn vein of his body right now, but it was fine!

...Melitele’s sagging tits, it wasn’t fucking fine.

He pulled his knees up and hugged them close to his chest. He had to keep it together until Geralt came back. He just had to stay calm and keep breathing. He could wait this out. Just until Geralt got back. He had to.

So, he closed his eyes and started taking deep breaths.

_Breathe in._

_One. Two. Three. Four._

_Hold._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven_

_Breathe out._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven._

_Breathe in._

_One. Two. Three. Four._

_Hold._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven._

_Breathe out._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight._

He'd finally started to find a comfortable breathing pattern, but he still couldn’t calm himself down. Not really. His heart still pounded in his ears, his muscles were still tight and rigid, and he was still so _scared_ , and he felt so fucking _stupid_ for it.

_Why? Why am I so scared? Geralt’s just going to get wood. He’ll be back soon._

_What if he gets hurt? In those woods?_

_...No, no, he’ll be fine._

_I don’t know that. It’s so dark out there, I can’t see a thing._

_Fuck, I shouldn’t be this scared! It’s just a fucking cave!_

_It’s a cave I can’t see a thing in. It’s a cave I’m fucking cold in. It’s a cave I’m scared to walk around in because I might hit something. It’s a cave where I can’t fucking call out for Geralt, so if I end up in danger, I’m fucked. Fucked! FUCKED!_

Okay, no. This wasn’t working. If focusing on the present in his own head was too much, then… why not the past? Why not think about all the _good_ things he’d experienced in caves?

The first thing his mind went to was the Edge of the World. Tied back to back with Geralt. Getting kicked. Getting his lute broken. Learning of what really happened to the elves.

Right. Yeah. Not the most pleasant memory.

His mind went to that cave from last week. The one Geralt went into. The one he waited outside with Roach. The one he got grabbed and drugged outside of. The last place he’d been before waking up in that cabin.

_No. No. NO. Not there. Damn it, why isn’t anything fucking WORKING?_

He lifted his head, having hung it behind his knees before, and stared blankly ahead, resolving that he’d just… count. Count down from sixty. Count the fucking minutes until Geralt came back. His brain wouldn’t let him think about anything without making him more scared than before.

_Fifty-nine…_

He breathed in deeply.

_Fifty-eight…_

He breathed out slowly, letting the hiss of his nasally exhale ring into his ears.

_Fifty-seven…_

He breathed in.

_Fifty-six…_

He breathed out.

_Fifty-five…_

In.

_Fifty-four…_

Out.

_Fifty-three…_

_Fifty-two…_

_Fifty-what’s tickling my face?_

Jaskier could feel something. On his left temple. It was right next to that cloth around his jaw, and on the strap of his mask, so he figured some of his hair just got tangled up and tickled his skin, and he scratched just above the spot to try to displace the hair he thought to be tickling him.

The tickling feeling danced across his cheek.

Jaskier’s heart dropped to his stomach, and his stomach dropped to his feet. He froze like that for just a second, his fingers against his hair and his head unmoving, but in that moment, he could feel that what he _thought_ was hair had eight legs.

Eight fucking legs.

On his face.

His own muffled scream screeched through his ears as he smacked the spider away as hard as he could, slapping his own nose in the process.

The spider went flying.

And so did Jaskier’s last drop of resistance to complete and utter panic.

He couldn’t breathe. No amount of air he sucked into his lungs was enough. He ripped off the strip of cloth around his head. It was too much. Too constricting. Too trapping. He didn’t even untie the knot at the top - it would have taken too long. He needed it off _now._ He just ripped the whole thing off by pulling it forward by the knot as hard as he could, throwing it to the ground beside him and doing the same to his mask.

But it didn’t stop him from feeling suffocated. From hearing his heart pound in his ears like a war drum. From feeling like his lungs collapsed every time he took a breath, always too short. Not enough.

It didn’t stop him from feeling like he was back there.

He could almost feel that tickling across his skin, a phantom sensation amidst what he couldn’t tell was a hot flash or a bout of chills, both making him sweat and making the sensation worse; the sensation of spiders crawling over his skin again, no matter how much he just wanted it to fucking _stop._ He smacked at his arms, legs, shoulders - wherever he could feel it, but it didn’t stop. Why couldn’t it just fucking stop?

He could almost hear that bastard’s taunts again, hissed and venomous with every syllable, as if he were relishing in the fact that he could still talk and Jaskier couldn’t. He covered his ears to try and block it out, but he couldn’t block out what was in his own fucking head. All covering his ears did was amplify his pounding heartbeat and heavy breathing.

As he kept his jaw clenched so tightly it almost hurt his teeth, Jaskier curled his fingers into the hair around his fingers, pulling at it despite the pain in his scalp that came as a result. He could barely even recognize it, and what he did recognize, he didn’t give a fuck about. Tears already streamed down his face anyway - this was just another reason for them. The pain in his skin was nothing compared to the pain and terror in his mind.

_Don't touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me_

**_I NEED SOMEONE'S ARMS AROUND ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW PLEASE_ **

_I need to be left alone everyone needs to just fuck off_

**_PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME BE ALONE ANYMORE I CAN'T TAKE THIS_ **

_It’s too much it’s too much it’s too much_

**_IT’S NOT ENOUGH NONE OF IT’S ENOUGH PLEASE_ **

He felt something against his jaw. A hand. He pulled his head away, tapping it against the stone wall on accident as he did.

_No I don’t want it leave my fucking face ALONE_

He felt two hands on his arms now. They were gentle, as if trying to ground him while still being soothing.

Wait. He knew these hands. He’d know them by touch alone.

He heard something in front of him. A voice, muffled by his hands on his ears into little more than a hum, but Jaskier could still make out the word. And who said it.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt.

It was Geralt. This was Geralt. Here. Now.

Jaskier shakily pulled his hands off his ears, using them instead to hold onto Geralt’s forearms. He opened his eyes, stinging with tears, and he could barely make out his Witcher’s form in the dark.

But he was here. He was _here._

“Jaskier, it’s me, Geralt.” he said softly, “I’m back. Are you alright?”

Jaskier shook his head, unsure if Geralt could see it (he could, in fact, see it due to his enhanced vision) but uncaring about that matter as he moved his hands up to Geralt’s biceps, then to his shoulders, before finally wrapping his arms around the Witcher. Stifled, suffocating sobs bubbled up in his throat again as he sniffled against Geralt’s shoulder, gripping the fabric of the Witcher’s cloak so tightly that his knuckles went white. When he felt the Witcher embrace him in return, his sobs only worsened.

Jaskier didn’t know how long they stayed like that, with him crying on Geralt’s shoulder while he rubbed soothing circles into his back as he flinched at the occasional clap of thunder and tightened his grip, but eventually, his sobs subsided, and he finally started to calm down.

“You’re freezing.” Geralt said, right next to Jaskier’s ear. “Do you want me to build a fire? I brought back wood before the storm hit. It’s dry.”

Jaskier didn’t want to let go, but he needed to be warm. He needed to see what was around him. He needed that fire, even if it meant breaking away from Geralt for a moment or so.

He nodded, a motion Geralt could feel against his shoulder, and pulled away.

Geralt knew something was wrong with Jaskier the second he stepped back into the cave with Roach; as he tied Roach’s lead off on the rock he found before, he could sense the bard’s pounding heartbeat and hear his sobs and shaky breathing, and his enhanced vision allowed him to make out Jaskier’s form, curled up against the cave wall.

Still, even after listening to Jaskier’s heart-wrenching sobs and feeling the bard shake against him, Geralt was still somehow unprepared for what he’d see after he made fire - for what his enhanced vision didn’t show him.

It was only by the firelight that he could see the streaks of tears down Jaskier’s face, the minute trembling in his stitched lips, and the bunches of his hair sticking out where he pulled at it. More than anything, the light from the fire illuminated the exhaustion in his eyes, and the residue of sheer panic.

Geralt knew Jaskier was probably dehydrated, so as he watched Jaskier hug his knees in front of the fire, he nodded to Jaskier’s pack, where his waterskin and straws were, and told him that if he could drink, he should.

Jaskier eyed the pack with heavy eyes, but nonetheless nodded and grabbed his supplies. Geralt respectfully turned his gaze to the fire; he knew Jaskier didn’t like to be watched. Still, when he looked at the flames, he couldn’t take his mind off of Jaskier’s fear. His _pain._ Damn it, why the fuck did he leave him there all alone?

It wasn’t until Geralt could hear Jaskier put his waterskin and straw away that he turned back around. The bard still hugged his knees to his chest as he stared blankly into the fire, and Geralt still saw a minute trembling in his hands and jaw. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the chill not entirely remedied by the fire yet, or if it came from his anxiety.

But Geralt looked at the cloak on his own shoulders and realized he had something that might remedy his trembling either way.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier lifted his head to look at Geralt, who unhooked his cloak and took it off his shoulders.

“You’re still shaking.” Geralt held his cloak out to him. “Would this help?”

Jaskier looked at the cloak, drew his eyes back up to the Witcher, and nodded. Still, after a few beats, he didn’t reach out to take it from Geralt, perhaps due to exhaustion or discombobulated thoughts, so Geralt tentatively wrapped it around Jaskier’s shoulders himself, clasping it’s two hooks in front before sitting back again.

For a moment, the Witcher worried he’d overstepped a boundary by putting the cloak on Jaskier for him - damn it, he’d done enough damage by making him stay here by himself - but Jaskier dispelled this worry when he pulled the cloak’s hood over his head and wrapped it around himself. Geralt and Jaskier were close to the same height, but Geralt’s broader, Witchery build meant the cloak was a bit big on Jaskier, less like a cloak and more like a blanket with a hood.

The bard’s trembling started to subside, and in this, Geralt was relieved at the fact that his cloak either gave him warmth to fight the chill, or comfort to push away his fear.

He didn’t know Jaskier found the most comfort in the fact that it smelled like Geralt.

“...Do you want to tell me about what happened?”

It wasn’t rhetorical - it was an honest question. Whatever happened while Geralt was gone, it scared Jaskier enough to push him into the awful state he was in when the Witcher found him, so if he didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine.

Jaskier took a deep, shaky breath as he stared at the fire.

He flattened his hands, faced his palms towards himself, and put them over his eyes.

_“It was dark…”_

He made fists and shook his arms in front of his chest, as if to mimic a shiver.

_“It was cold…”_

He outstretched his fingers on both his hands, put one over his chest and the other over his stomach, and shook them back and forth.

_“...And I was scared.”_

_“I tried to stay calm. Really. I tried to relax. To not be afraid. But…”_

He crossed his wrists over one another and wiggled his fingers. Geralt knew what that sign meant in an instant, and his heart _sank._

_“A spider.”_

Jaskier drummed his index and middle finger over his face, showing how it crawled across his cheek until he smacked it away.

_“...Pretty much went to shit after that.”_

Geralt couldn’t shake the guilt he felt - this could have been avoided if he checked the cave more thoroughly, or took Jaskier with him to collect wood, or… or… Fuck.

“Jaskier…”

 _“Back when I was there. In that cabin…”_ Jaskier continued, _“After…”_

He didn’t need to make clear what he was referring to, but he still gestured to his mouth, to the stitches still uncovered, for his mask still lay off to the side somewhere. He made that same sign for “spider” and trailed his fingers over his body - his arms, his legs, his shoulder, his torso, his collarbones - to say…

_“Spiders would crawl over me.”_

“And you couldn’t move to get them off of you.” Geralt said what they both knew - he saw how Jaskier was bound when he found him. Guilt settled in his heart like a stone would settle in a pond.

“Fuck, Jaskier, I’m sorry.” Geralt apologized, “I only tried to sense what could hurt you. That thing must not have been venomous. That’s how I didn’t know it was there. I wouldn’t have told you to stay here if-”

Jaskier shook his head.

_“No, no, it wasn’t you. I’m just…”_

He put the fingertips of his left hand against the open palm of his right and curled them twice.

_“Weak.”_

He closed all his fingers on his left hand but his index and middle finger and smacked the back of his hand against his forehead.

_“And stupid.”_

_“No.”_ Geralt all but snapped.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and shook his head again.

“Jaskier-”

 _“I’m why we’re out of an inn for the night!”_ Jaskier’s hands started flying. _“I shouldn’t have asked us to stay in that clearing earlier today. We would have had more time to make it to an inn, and those bandits might not have seen us.”_

Geralt tilted his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows; he understood Jaskier’s signs, but he still had no clue what the bard was talking about. Did he really think their shelter predicament was his fault? That his anxiety and panic, and what triggered it, didn’t matter? That he was lesser for it? That he should have just pushed it down?

 _“It’s my fault we had to settle for this.”_ Jaskier gestured to the cave around them, _“I should have just beared with it. Sucked it up. And I tried, but…”_

He hung his head, burying it behind his curled-up knees. The hood of Geralt’s cloak draped over his head, and when Jaskier wrapped the cloak tightly around himself, it shrouded him entirely. Fitting. Jaskier wanted to hide away from the world, hoping this fabric would be a good enough shield from it.

“Jaskier…”

Geralt sighed.

“I wanted to stay back there too. In that clearing.” He told the bard, “It was nice. I gathered ingredients I needed, and we both got some rest. There wasn’t anything wrong with staying there for a bit like you suggested.”

Jaskier slowly lifted his cloaked head again, his eyes shining. With his two index fingers touching in front of him, he drew them away from one another.

_“But…”_

Jaskier trailed off.

“There’s no way to know we would have missed those bandits, really, and…”

Geralt thought for a moment.

“We wouldn’t have made it to the next town tonight, anyway.” Geralt told him, “I didn’t realize we’d have this bad of a storm tonight. I underestimated how far the next town was; for all we know, they may hate Witchers. We may have just ended up here no matter what.”

He wasn't sure how much of this was true, really. Maybe they really _would_ have reached the next town and gotten a roof over their heads if they hadn't stopped earlier, but he wasn't concerned with accuracy about what might have been; right now, he was concerned with comforting Jaskier and comforting Jaskier only.

“And even if, somehow, you _did_ stop us from reaching an inn tonight, that’s no reason to suffer in-”

He stopped himself before he said something especially idiotic. He couldn’t say Jaskier had no reason to suffer in silence; that was what he’d been doing for the past week.

“It’s no reason to tell yourself your fear and pain don’t matter.” he told the bard, hoping beyond hope that he’d believe it, “Please, Jaskier, don’t be so cruel to yourself. You… if I sat here before you, in a state like yours… if you found me in a state as scared and hurt as I found you minutes ago, the last thing you’d let me do is tell myself my feelings don’t matter, or that I’m weak, or stupid. You’d never let me say that about myself.”

 _“Because you don’t deserve that!”_ Jaskier insisted.

“And you do?”

Jaskier’s hands were still, hesitant. He cast his eyes down and tucked his arms under his cloak. Geralt cast his eyes down too, for a moment. Why was this world so cruel as to make Jaskier think so lowly of himself? Why? How could it be so horrible?

Geralt leaned in so Jaskier, despite averting his gaze, would see him.

“No, you don’t, Jaskier.” he told him, softly enough not to startle him but firmly enough to make sure he knew it was true.

Or to try to make sure, at least.

“You don’t deserve that.”

Jaskier met his gaze reluctantly. Geralt sat back up, and Jaskier kept his eyes on him still.

Geralt sighed.

“Why are you treating yourself so cruelly? If someone were to talk to me right now the way you’re talking about yourself, you’d give ‘em hell. I know it. I’ve once seen you threaten to remove an alderman’s cock from his balls because he insulted my eyes.”

Jaskier was unresponsive for a beat as he remembered that incident - one that left them without new coin or an inn room. That night under the stars was totally worth it, in Jaskier’s eyes.

_“He said they looked like someone pissed in them. And that someone should.”_

“I remember the look on his face when you told him off.” Geralt said, letting a smirk twitch at the corner of his lips. “Might’ve shit his cloak.”

Jaskier huffed through his nose, letting his head dip for a beat as he stifled a little laugh. That laugh was as little as it was fleeting as the heavy, saddened look in his eyes returned as quickly as it left. Such a sight saddened Geralt again, as well.

“You’ve never let anyone be cruel to me, so why be so cruel to yourself?”

_“Because I should have been able to do this for you.”_

Geralt still didn’t understand. 

“Do what, Jaskier?”

_“After everything you’ve done for me, all you asked of me was to stay here. The least I could have done was stay calm, not freak the fuck out. But I couldn’t even…”_

He sighed through his nose and shook his head, shrugging his shoulders.

_“You can’t leave me alone for ten minutes anymore, can you?”_

He rubbed his fist in a circle on his chest, staring down at the fire.

_“I’m sorry…”_

“I shouldn’t have.”

Jaskier turned his gaze to Geralt again, confused.

“I shouldn’t have left you here by yourself. Not at all. I have better eyes for the darkness, but you don’t. I never should have left you alone here, in a place as dark as this one was when I left you here.”

He looked over his shoulder at Roach, who stood calmly, watching them from a foot or two away. She blinked a few times at them, snorting when Geralt made eye contact with her.

“I should have at least left Roach here with you.” he suggested, “Keep you company.”

Jaskier huffed.

“Or… I could have asked you if you wanted to collect the wood with me, or wait outside the cave instead…” He tilted his head from side to side unconsciously as he bounced ideas around. “I just didn’t want to risk you catching cold. I should have come up with something better than just leaving you here. Alone. In the dark.”

Jaskier kept his gaze on the fire, but he started signing something, an absent look in his eyes.

_“You know… if I’d gone in that cave with you before… I wonder if he still would have made off with me.”_

Geralt’s heart sank in his chest. Jaskier looked up, saw the remorseful look on the Witcher’s face, and quickly clarified.

_“I don’t hold it against you! I promise!”_

He pointed at himself and spun his index finger in the air once.

_“I just…”_

Jaskier shrugged.

_“We’re in a cave, that’s all. It’s got me thinking.”_

Geralt thought back to that day, to that moment he heard Jaskier cry out his name - the last word he’d heard Jaskier speak - and not even getting through it before that bastard cut him off. He thought back to slicing through web after web after web, fighting like hell to get to Jaskier only to come out of that cave to find him gone.

“He never would have gotten the chance." Geralt swore, "He never would have put his hands on you. Ever.”

Jaskier touched his index fingertips to one another before pulling them far apart, pointing to his left to refer to the obvious spider, closed all his fingers but his thumb and index on both hands and kept his palms facing up, and tapped his two sets of open fingers together twice.

_“...But he did.”_

“...He did.”

Jaskier looked down for a moment, collecting his still-scattered thoughts.

_“Thank you for coming back when you did.”_

Geralt hummed.

“Always.”

The Witcher watched Jaskier’s eyes droop, those cornflower miracles quickly becoming half-lidded. Jaskier hummed and let his head dip forward a bit.

“You look tired, Jaskier.”

The bard nodded slowly, not so much nodding as he let his head loll back and forth.

_“But... I’m scared to sleep here.”_

He looked up at the ceiling of the cave.

_“What if there’s more spiders? I don’t want to wake up to them…”_

He drew his fingers over his arms and up his legs, shuddering.

Geralt was stuck. He could tell Jaskier there weren’t any more, but words alone wouldn’t ease his fears so easily. He could try to use his Witcher senses to find out if there were more spiders, but if anything, that might’ve just made Jaskier feel worse, and he’d tell himself he was the reason for the pain it would cause Geralt.

...But he did have one other idea.

“Do you want to sleep together?"

Jaskier snapped his head up with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t, really.

Geralt picked up on the spike in his heart rate, and he immediately felt awful for it. Of course, he shouldn’t have asked something so bluntly, so quickly, so vaguely. He couldn't imagine how appalling he must have sounded. Such a request obviously shocked Jaskier, and Geralt told himself that he should have known that.

Jaskier held out a flat, open right hand, palm facing up as he flipped around his left hand, bent at the first knuckle, to touch his fingertips into his right palm.

_“Come again?”_

“I… We could put our bedrolls next to each other, so we'd sleep next to each other."

Jaskier let out a breath through his nose, relaxing his shoulders.

 _Of course, that's what he meant._ Jaskier told himself. _Why would you assume anything else? Idiot._

"I’d be able to make sure pests don’t come near you." Geralt continued to clarify, "They’ll stay away from me. They… nothing else would touch you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shook his head, huffing as he shrugged again.

_“I can’t ask you to do that!”_

“You’re not. I'm asking you.” Geralt told him, “It… you wouldn’t have ended up in this state if I didn’t leave you here. I… would it help you?”

Jaskier seemed to consider for a moment…

He nodded.

_“Are you sure? It’s fine?”_

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

A beat of silence passed…

_“Alright.”_

Geralt got up and walked over to Roach, taking his bedroll off of her and laying it out on the cave floor next to the fire, inadvertently fanning it and sending sparks up.

Jaskier stood up, Geralt's cloak falling down his shoulders as he shuffled over to Roach and got his bedroll, too. As Geralt lay on his back with his eyes closed, Jaskier laid out his bedroll to the left of the Witcher’s. Making sure the cloak didn't bunch under him, he laid down and got on his side, facing Geralt.

He watched the Witcher’s chest rise and fall as firelight illuminated his sleeping face, the orange light of the flame to Geralt’s left silhouetting his face immaculately, his profile looking not unlike a sunrise-lit mountain.

Fuck, he was beautiful.

Finally, for the first time since setting foot in this cave, Jaskier felt safe. He felt at peace.

And he finally let himself feel tired.

* * *

Geralt woke up to silence. It wasn't unusual nowadays, given Jaskier's predicament, but right now, it was a relief. Silence meant no more rain. Silence meant no more thunder. Through closed eyelids, he saw not black, but fleshy pink, a color he only saw like this when light shined over his eyes.

 _Must be morning._

He blinked his eyes open and saw the grey of the stone cave walls around him, illuminated by light from the cave opening.

Geralt sat up with a grunt and looked to his right, where he saw daylight shine through the mouth of the cave, glistening in the trees that lay beyond them under a clear blue sky.

He looked down at the cloaked bard next to him. One of Jaskier's legs crossed over the other as he slept on his side, apparently facing Geralt. The Witcher leaned down to where he could see Jaskier’s backlit face better; where he could look down and see the messy hair swooping down Jaskier’s forehead, and the way his long lashes adorned his eyelids, so lovely.

And the way the pink hue of his lips countered the ink black hue of the thread embedded in them.

 _Well,_ he thought, _the sooner Jaskier's up and moving, the sooner they could head to the next town. Look for some mage. Take a contract. All that._

He reached down to Jaskier's cloaked shoulder and gently shook him awake.

The bard pressed one of his palms to his eye, making a small noise as he stirred and rubbed the sleep away.

_Damn it, why does he have to be so fucking cute?_

Jaskier blinked at Geralt before touching his right hand to the inside of his left elbow and lazily curling his arm up around it.

_"Morning."_

"Morning, Jaskier."

The bard turned onto his back and sat up, turning his head and blinking at the morning light coming through the cave opening.

"Storm's over."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...sorry Jaskier  
> (I'm going to say that alot for future chapters honestly...)  
> It'll probably be a bit until another chapter comes out... gotta love uni!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr! @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account


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